Zeitschriftenartikel zum Thema „Streets: Fifth avenue“

The urban world in which many of us live does not lend itself to the metric of Euclidean geometry. Assuming that the avenues are perpendicular to the streets in a city, the distance from “fifth and fifty-first” to “seventh and thirty-fourth” is not the familiar Euclidean distance found by applying the Pythagorean theorem. The distance must instead be measured in blocks from fifth to seventh avenues and then from fifty-first to thirty-fourth streets. This taxicab metric, one of several me tries used in mathematics (Eisenberg and Khabbaz 1992), is practical for many applications and helps students pursue interesting investigations while deepening their understanding of familiar topics.

This paper deals with one particular purpose for public space, the role it plays in permitting popular public participation in in democratic governance, democratic governance in a very political sense. For the United States, it might be called “First Amendment Space”, after the provision in the U.S.A. Constituting establishing the rights of free speech and free assembly. In a broader sense, public space should also be available democratically and based on equality of rights for a full range of social interchanges, for recreation, sports, picnicking, hiking, running, sitting, chatting, simply enjoyment, by all people, equally. Such uses, carried out democratically, are in turn necessary for democratic governance, but in a different way. Let me call them “Social Spaces”. And they may be divided between Convening spaces, where convening for the purposes of political effectiveness may be planned, and Encounter Spaces, where chance meetings and discussion may be take place without prior planning/convening. “Infrastructural Spaces” are also social spaces but in a different sense, not directly political: spaces for transportation, streets, sidewalks, recreational areas, parks, hiking trails, bicycles partially. he term “Third Space” is sometimes in fashion in a similar sense, and often defined as somewhere between public and private1. More on social spaces elsewhere. When public space is referred to here, it is in the sense of political public space, First Amendment space in the United States. Tahrir Square in Cairo, the Playa of Mothers in Buenos Aires, the Mall in Washington, D.C., Zuccotti Park in New York City, perhaps Central Park or Fifth Avenue, with its parades and marches, but also the fenced in space under the West Side highway at the time of the Republican Convention, and perhaps the indoor space of the Convention Center, as used for convening for discussions of alternate proposals for rebuilding after 9/11.

On an unusually bright, faintly springlike morning in mid–February of 1919 in New York City, a huge crowd of perhaps a million people gathered along Fifth Avenue all the way from Madison Square Park to 110th Street and from there along Lenox Avenue north to 145th Street. Along with Governor Al Smith, ex-Governor Charles Whitman, Acting-Mayor Robert Moran, Special Assistant to the Secretary of War Emmett J. Scott, William Randolph Hearst, Rodman Wanamaker, and other notables, they had come to welcome home the men of the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment of New York's National Guard, who had fought so well in France as the 369th Infantry Regiment of the American Expeditionary Force (Figure 1).

When, on his way back to Manhattan from Kennedy Airport where he has picked up his girlfriend Maria, Sherman McCoy, the protagonist of Tom Wolfe's The Bonfire of the Vanities, takes a wrong exit, he gets lost and ends up in the Bronx. This is Sherman's first meeting with the Bronx, and it turns out to be nothing less than a catastrophe. A wealthy Wall Street stockbroker with a very WASP background, Sherman McCoy has lived his life under conditions as remote from those of any child growing up in the Bronx as can possibly be. The distance between McCoy's Manhattan – that of his business address, Wall Street, as well as his private one, Fifth Avenue – and the Bronx may not be great in geographical terms; in economic and psychological terms, however, it is enormous. In the Bronx, McCoy encounters “the other” America, the poor, non-white, and violent America from which his sheltered background has successfully shielded him until he is well into his thirties. He, or rather his girlfriend Maria, runs down and mortally wounds a young black man – an accident for which later Sherman gets all the blame and is put to trial. Puzzled and frightened, Sherman does not quite know how to relate to the Bronx and to the accident, and it is Maria who finally has to enlighten and explain to him what it is all about:Sherman, let me tell you something. There's two kinds a jungles. Wall Street is a jungle. You've heard that, haven't you? You know how to handle yourself in that jungle…. And then there's the other jungle. That's the one we got lost in the other night, in the Bronx…. You don't live in that jungle, Sherman, and you never have. You know what's in that jungle? People who are all the time crossing back and forth, back and forth, from this side of the law to the other side…. You don't know what that's like. You had a good upbringing. Laws weren't any kind of a threat to you. They were your laws, Sherman, people like you and your family's…. And let me tell you something else. Right there on the line everyody's an animal – the police, the judges, the criminals, everybody (p. 275).

The Museum of the City of New York announces the opening of an exhibit produced in cooperation with Mt. Sinai Medical Center and based on research undertaken by social anthropologist Judith Freidenberg. Growing Old in Spanish Harlem contains a selection of photographs taken in the field by sociologist Edmundo Morales and then used by Dr. Freidenberg to elicit informant responses. It also includes photographs illustrating other issues and concerns that arose in the course of the interviews and artifacts from the homes of some of the respondents. An accompanying video and exhibition text panels and labels are in Spanish and English. The exhibit is on view through January 3, 1993, in the New York City Community Gallery, Fifth Avenue at 103rd Street.

Background: Accidents were just one of the general health problems. According to WHO forecasts (2013), deaths from road accidents will become the fifth-highest cause of death in the world by 2030. Therefore, we have attempted the application of non-parametric count models for modeling female’s accident rates. Methods: All accidents in Hamadan Province, western Iran are referred to as one of the emergency centers located in the hospitals. Data regarding the accidents were obtained from 21 emergency centers across Hamadan for the period 2009-2016. To assess the trend and pattern of the accidents, the Generalized Additive Model for the accident rate has been utilized. Results: The Mean±SD age of the females in study was 31.23±12.88 yr old. For each of the three kinds of road accidents (car accidents, motor accidents and pedestrian crashes), the accident rates in the “residential urban” areas are lesser than in the “non-residential” area (P=<0.001) and in "public and sports grounds" and "great roads, avenues and streets" are more than in "others". For the three kinds of accidents, the functional effect in the monthly trend of the accidents was signification (P=<0.001). Conclusion: The rates for all three kinds of accidents decreased. The increase in accident rates from the beginning of 2014 to Mar 2016 maybe due to the generalization of insurances in Iran and the increase in the number of accident victims being referred to the hospitals, which was the same with the results of other studies.

By the time you read this, it will be wrong. Things seemed to be moving so fast in these first days after airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the Pennsylvania earth. Each certainty is as carelessly dropped as it was once carelessly assumed. The sounds of lower Manhattan that used to serve as white noise for residents—sirens, screeches, screams—are no longer signs without a referent. Instead, they make folks stare and stop, hurry and hustle, wondering whether the noises we know so well are in fact, this time, coefficients of a new reality. At the time of writing, the events themselves are also signs without referents—there has been no direct claim of responsibility, and little proof offered by accusers since the 11th. But it has been assumed that there is a link to US foreign policy, its military and economic presence in the Arab world, and opposition to it that seeks revenge. In the intervening weeks the US media and the war planners have supplied their own narrow frameworks, making New York’s “ground zero” into the starting point for a new escalation of global violence. We want to write here about the combination of sources and sensations that came that day, and the jumble of knowledges and emotions that filled our minds. Working late the night before, Toby was awoken in the morning by one of the planes right overhead. That happens sometimes. I have long expected a crash when I’ve heard the roar of jet engines so close—but I didn’t this time. Often when that sound hits me, I get up and go for a run down by the water, just near Wall Street. Something kept me back that day. Instead, I headed for my laptop. Because I cannot rely on local media to tell me very much about the role of the US in world affairs, I was reading the British newspaper The Guardian on-line when it flashed a two-line report about the planes. I looked up at the calendar above my desk to see whether it was April 1st. Truly. Then I got off-line and turned on the TV to watch CNN. That second, the phone rang. My quasi-ex-girlfriend I’m still in love with called from the mid-West. She was due to leave that day for the Bay Area. Was I alright? We spoke for a bit. She said my cell phone was out, and indeed it was for the remainder of the day. As I hung up from her, my friend Ana rang, tearful and concerned. Her husband, Patrick, had left an hour before for work in New Jersey, and it seemed like a dangerous separation. All separations were potentially fatal that day. You wanted to know where everyone was, every minute. She told me she had been trying to contact Palestinian friends who worked and attended school near the event—their ethnic, religious, and national backgrounds made for real poignancy, as we both thought of the prejudice they would (probably) face, regardless of the eventual who/what/when/where/how of these events. We agreed to meet at Bruno’s, a bakery on La Guardia Place. For some reason I really took my time, though, before getting to Ana. I shampooed and shaved under the shower. This was a horror, and I needed to look my best, even as men and women were losing and risking their lives. I can only interpret what I did as an attempt to impose normalcy and control on the situation, on my environment. When I finally made it down there, she’d located our friends. They were safe. We stood in the street and watched the Towers. Horrified by the sight of human beings tumbling to their deaths, we turned to buy a tea/coffee—again some ludicrous normalization—but were drawn back by chilling screams from the street. Racing outside, we saw the second Tower collapse, and clutched at each other. People were streaming towards us from further downtown. We decided to be with our Palestinian friends in their apartment. When we arrived, we learnt that Mark had been four minutes away from the WTC when the first plane hit. I tried to call my daughter in London and my father in Canberra, but to no avail. I rang the mid-West, and asked my maybe-former novia to call England and Australia to report in on me. Our friend Jenine got through to relatives on the West Bank. Israeli tanks had commenced a bombardment there, right after the planes had struck New York. Family members spoke to her from under the kitchen table, where they were taking refuge from the shelling of their house. Then we gave ourselves over to television, like so many others around the world, even though these events were happening only a mile away. We wanted to hear official word, but there was just a huge absence—Bush was busy learning to read in Florida, then leading from the front in Louisiana and Nebraska. As the day wore on, we split up and regrouped, meeting folks. One guy was in the subway when smoke filled the car. Noone could breathe properly, people were screaming, and his only thought was for his dog DeNiro back in Brooklyn. From the panic of the train, he managed to call his mom on a cell to ask her to feed “DeNiro” that night, because it looked like he wouldn’t get home. A pregnant woman feared for her unborn as she fled the blasts, pushing the stroller with her baby in it as she did so. Away from these heart-rending tales from strangers, there was the fear: good grief, what horrible price would the US Government extract for this, and who would be the overt and covert agents and targets of that suffering? What blood-lust would this generate? What would be the pattern of retaliation and counter-retaliation? What would become of civil rights and cultural inclusiveness? So a jumble of emotions came forward, I assume in all of us. Anger was not there for me, just intense sorrow, shock, and fear, and the desire for intimacy. Network television appeared to offer me that, but in an ultimately unsatisfactory way. For I think I saw the end-result of reality TV that day. I have since decided to call this ‘emotionalization’—network TV’s tendency to substitute analysis of US politics and economics with a stress on feelings. Of course, powerful emotions have been engaged by this horror, and there is value in addressing that fact and letting out the pain. I certainly needed to do so. But on that day and subsequent ones, I looked to the networks, traditional sources of current-affairs knowledge, for just that—informed, multi-perspectival journalism that would allow me to make sense of my feelings, and come to a just and reasoned decision about how the US should respond. I waited in vain. No such commentary came forward. Just a lot of asinine inquiries from reporters that were identical to those they pose to basketballers after a game: Question—‘How do you feel now?’ Answer—‘God was with me today.’ For the networks were insistent on asking everyone in sight how they felt about the end of las torres gemelas. In this case, we heard the feelings of survivors, firefighters, viewers, media mavens, Republican and Democrat hacks, and vacuous Beltway state-of-the-nation pundits. But learning of the military-political economy, global inequality, and ideologies and organizations that made for our grief and loss—for that, there was no space. TV had forgotten how to do it. My principal feeling soon became one of frustration. So I headed back to where I began the day—The Guardian web site, where I was given insightful analysis of the messy factors of history, religion, economics, and politics that had created this situation. As I dealt with the tragedy of folks whose lives had been so cruelly lost, I pondered what it would take for this to stop. Or whether this was just the beginning. I knew one thing—the answers wouldn’t come from mainstream US television, no matter how full of feelings it was. And that made Toby anxious. And afraid. He still is. And so the dreams come. In one, I am suddenly furloughed from my job with an orchestra, as audience numbers tumble. I make my evening-wear way to my locker along with the other players, emptying it of bubble gum and instrument. The next night, I see a gigantic, fifty-feet high wave heading for the city beach where I’ve come to swim. Somehow I am sheltered behind a huge wall, as all the people around me die. Dripping, I turn to find myself in a media-stereotype “crack house” of the early ’90s—desperate-looking black men, endless doorways, sudden police arrival, and my earnest search for a passport that will explain away my presence. I awake in horror, to the realization that the passport was already open and stamped—racialization at work for Toby, every day and in every way, as a white man in New York City. Ana’s husband, Patrick, was at work ten miles from Manhattan when “it” happened. In the hallway, I overheard some talk about two planes crashing, but went to teach anyway in my usual morning stupor. This was just the usual chatter of disaster junkies. I didn’t hear the words, “World Trade Center” until ten thirty, at the end of the class at the college I teach at in New Jersey, across the Hudson river. A friend and colleague walked in and told me the news of the attack, to which I replied “You must be fucking joking.” He was a little offended. Students were milling haphazardly on the campus in the late summer weather, some looking panicked like me. My first thought was of some general failure of the air-traffic control system. There must be planes falling out of the sky all over the country. Then the height of the towers: how far towards our apartment in Greenwich Village would the towers fall? Neither of us worked in the financial district a mile downtown, but was Ana safe? Where on the college campus could I see what was happening? I recognized the same physical sensation I had felt the morning after Hurricane Andrew in Miami seeing at a distance the wreckage of our shattered apartment across a suburban golf course strewn with debris and flattened power lines. Now I was trapped in the suburbs again at an unbridgeable distance from my wife and friends who were witnessing the attacks first hand. Were they safe? What on earth was going on? This feeling of being cut off, my path to the familiar places of home blocked, remained for weeks my dominant experience of the disaster. In my office, phone calls to the city didn’t work. There were six voice-mail messages from my teenaged brother Alex in small-town England giving a running commentary on the attack and its aftermath that he was witnessing live on television while I dutifully taught my writing class. “Hello, Patrick, where are you? Oh my god, another plane just hit the towers. Where are you?” The web was choked: no access to newspapers online. Email worked, but no one was wasting time writing. My office window looked out over a soccer field to the still woodlands of western New Jersey: behind me to the east the disaster must be unfolding. Finally I found a website with a live stream from ABC television, which I watched flickering and stilted on the tiny screen. It had all already happened: both towers already collapsed, the Pentagon attacked, another plane shot down over Pennsylvania, unconfirmed reports said, there were other hijacked aircraft still out there unaccounted for. Manhattan was sealed off. George Washington Bridge, Lincoln and Holland tunnels, all the bridges and tunnels from New Jersey I used to mock shut down. Police actions sealed off the highways into “the city.” The city I liked to think of as the capital of the world was cut off completely from the outside, suddenly vulnerable and under siege. There was no way to get home. The phone rang abruptly and Alex, three thousand miles away, told me he had spoken to Ana earlier and she was safe. After a dozen tries, I managed to get through and spoke to her, learning that she and Toby had seen people jumping and then the second tower fall. Other friends had been even closer. Everyone was safe, we thought. I sat for another couple of hours in my office uselessly. The news was incoherent, stories contradictory, loops of the planes hitting the towers only just ready for recycling. The attacks were already being transformed into “the World Trade Center Disaster,” not yet the ahistorical singularity of the emergency “nine one one.” Stranded, I had to spend the night in New Jersey at my boss’s house, reminded again of the boundless generosity of Americans to relative strangers. In an effort to protect his young son from the as yet unfiltered images saturating cable and Internet, my friend’s TV set was turned off and we did our best to reassure. We listened surreptitiously to news bulletins on AM radio, hoping that the roads would open. Walking the dog with my friend’s wife and son we crossed a park on the ridge on which Upper Montclair sits. Ten miles away a huge column of smoke was rising from lower Manhattan, where the stunning absence of the towers was clearly visible. The summer evening was unnervingly still. We kicked a soccer ball around on the front lawn and a woman walked distracted by, shocked and pale up the tree-lined suburban street, suffering her own wordless trauma. I remembered that though most of my students were ordinary working people, Montclair is a well-off dormitory for the financial sector and high rises of Wall Street and Midtown. For the time being, this was a white-collar disaster. I slept a short night in my friend’s house, waking to hope I had dreamed it all, and took the commuter train in with shell-shocked bankers and corporate types. All men, all looking nervously across the river toward glimpses of the Manhattan skyline as the train neared Hoboken. “I can’t believe they’re making us go in,” one guy had repeated on the station platform. He had watched the attacks from his office in Midtown, “The whole thing.” Inside the train we all sat in silence. Up from the PATH train station on 9th street I came onto a carless 6th Avenue. At 14th street barricades now sealed off downtown from the rest of the world. I walked down the middle of the avenue to a newspaper stand; the Indian proprietor shrugged “No deliveries below 14th.” I had not realized that the closer to the disaster you came, the less information would be available. Except, I assumed, for the evidence of my senses. But at 8 am the Village was eerily still, few people about, nothing in the sky, including the twin towers. I walked to Houston Street, which was full of trucks and police vehicles. Tractor trailers sat carrying concrete barriers. Below Houston, each street into Soho was barricaded and manned by huddles of cops. I had walked effortlessly up into the “lockdown,” but this was the “frozen zone.” There was no going further south towards the towers. I walked the few blocks home, found my wife sleeping, and climbed into bed, still in my clothes from the day before. “Your heart is racing,” she said. I realized that I hadn’t known if I would get back, and now I never wanted to leave again; it was still only eight thirty am. Lying there, I felt the terrible wonder of a distant bystander for the first-hand witness. Ana’s face couldn’t tell me what she had seen. I felt I needed to know more, to see and understand. Even though I knew the effort was useless: I could never bridge that gap that had trapped me ten miles away, my back turned to the unfolding disaster. The television was useless: we don’t have cable, and the mast on top of the North Tower, which Ana had watched fall, had relayed all the network channels. I knew I had to go down and see the wreckage. Later I would realize how lucky I had been not to suffer from “disaster envy.” Unbelievably, in retrospect, I commuted into work the second day after the attack, dogged by the same unnerving sensation that I would not get back—to the wounded, humbled former center of the world. My students were uneasy, all talked out. I was a novelty, a New Yorker living in the Village a mile from the towers, but I was forty-eight hours late. Out of place in both places. I felt torn up, but not angry. Back in the city at night, people were eating and drinking with a vengeance, the air filled with acrid sicklysweet smoke from the burning wreckage. Eyes stang and nose ran with a bitter acrid taste. Who knows what we’re breathing in, we joked nervously. A friend’s wife had fallen out with him for refusing to wear a protective mask in the house. He shrugged a wordlessly reassuring smile. What could any of us do? I walked with Ana down to the top of West Broadway from where the towers had commanded the skyline over SoHo; downtown dense smoke blocked the view to the disaster. A crowd of onlookers pushed up against the barricades all day, some weeping, others gawping. A tall guy was filming the grieving faces with a video camera, which was somehow the worst thing of all, the first sign of the disaster tourism that was already mushrooming downtown. Across the street an Asian artist sat painting the street scene in streaky black and white; he had scrubbed out two white columns where the towers would have been. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen that’s made me feel any better,” Ana said. We thanked him, but he shrugged blankly, still in shock I supposed. On the Friday, the clampdown. I watched the Mayor and Police Chief hold a press conference in which they angrily told the stream of volunteers to “ground zero” that they weren’t needed. “We can handle this ourselves. We thank you. But we don’t need your help,” Commissioner Kerik said. After the free-for-all of the first couple of days, with its amazing spontaneities and common gestures of goodwill, the clampdown was going into effect. I decided to go down to Canal Street and see if it was true that no one was welcome anymore. So many paths through the city were blocked now. “Lock down, frozen zone, war zone, the site, combat zone, ground zero, state troopers, secured perimeter, national guard, humvees, family center”: a disturbing new vocabulary that seemed to stamp the logic of Giuliani’s sanitized and over-policed Manhattan onto the wounded hulk of the city. The Mayor had been magnificent in the heat of the crisis; Churchillian, many were saying—and indeed, Giuliani quickly appeared on the cover of Cigar Afficionado, complete with wing collar and the misquotation from Kipling, “Captain Courageous.” Churchill had not believed in peacetime politics either, and he never got over losing his empire. Now the regime of command and control over New York’s citizens and its economy was being stabilized and reimposed. The sealed-off, disfigured, and newly militarized spaces of the New York through which I have always loved to wander at all hours seemed to have been put beyond reach for the duration. And, in the new post-“9/11” post-history, the duration could last forever. The violence of the attacks seemed to have elicited a heavy-handed official reaction that sought to contain and constrict the best qualities of New York. I felt more anger at the clampdown than I did at the demolition of the towers. I knew this was unreasonable, but I feared the reaction, the spread of the racial harassment and racial profiling that I had already heard of from my students in New Jersey. This militarizing of the urban landscape seemed to negate the sprawling, freewheeling, boundless largesse and tolerance on which New York had complacently claimed a monopoly. For many the towers stood for that as well, not just as the monumental outposts of global finance that had been attacked. Could the American flag mean something different? For a few days, perhaps—on the helmets of firemen and construction workers. But not for long. On the Saturday, I found an unmanned barricade way east along Canal Street and rode my bike past throngs of Chinatown residents, by the Federal jail block where prisoners from the first World Trade Center bombing were still being held. I headed south and west towards Tribeca; below the barricades in the frozen zone, you could roam freely, the cops and soldiers assuming you belonged there. I felt uneasy, doubting my own motives for being there, feeling the blood drain from my head in the same numbing shock I’d felt every time I headed downtown towards the site. I looped towards Greenwich Avenue, passing an abandoned bank full of emergency supplies and boxes of protective masks. Crushed cars still smeared with pulverized concrete and encrusted with paperwork strewn by the blast sat on the street near the disabled telephone exchange. On one side of the avenue stood a horde of onlookers, on the other television crews, all looking two blocks south towards a colossal pile of twisted and smoking steel, seven stories high. We were told to stay off the street by long-suffering national guardsmen and women with southern accents, kids. Nothing happening, just the aftermath. The TV crews were interviewing worn-out, dust-covered volunteers and firemen who sat quietly leaning against the railings of a park filled with scraps of paper. Out on the West Side highway, a high-tech truck was offering free cellular phone calls. The six lanes by the river were full of construction machinery and military vehicles. Ambulances rolled slowly uptown, bodies inside? I locked my bike redundantly to a lamppost and crossed under the hostile gaze of plainclothes police to another media encampment. On the path by the river, two camera crews were complaining bitterly in the heat. “After five days of this I’ve had enough.” They weren’t talking about the trauma, bodies, or the wreckage, but censorship. “Any blue light special gets to roll right down there, but they see your press pass and it’s get outta here. I’ve had enough.” I fronted out the surly cops and ducked under the tape onto the path, walking onto a Pier on which we’d spent many lazy afternoons watching the river at sunset. Dust everywhere, police boats docked and waiting, a crane ominously dredging mud into a barge. I walked back past the camera operators onto the highway and walked up to an interview in process. Perfectly composed, a fire chief and his crew from some small town in upstate New York were politely declining to give details about what they’d seen at “ground zero.” The men’s faces were dust streaked, their eyes slightly dazed with the shock of a horror previously unimaginable to most Americans. They were here to help the best they could, now they’d done as much as anyone could. “It’s time for us to go home.” The chief was eloquent, almost rehearsed in his precision. It was like a Magnum press photo. But he was refusing to cooperate with the media’s obsessive emotionalism. I walked down the highway, joining construction workers, volunteers, police, and firemen in their hundreds at Chambers Street. No one paid me any attention; it was absurd. I joined several other watchers on the stairs by Stuyvesant High School, which was now the headquarters for the recovery crews. Just two or three blocks away, the huge jagged teeth of the towers’ beautiful tracery lurched out onto the highway above huge mounds of debris. The TV images of the shattered scene made sense as I placed them into what was left of a familiar Sunday afternoon geography of bike rides and walks by the river, picnics in the park lying on the grass and gazing up at the infinite solidity of the towers. Demolished. It was breathtaking. If “they” could do that, they could do anything. Across the street at tables military policeman were checking credentials of the milling volunteers and issuing the pink and orange tags that gave access to ground zero. Without warning, there was a sudden stampede running full pelt up from the disaster site, men and women in fatigues, burly construction workers, firemen in bunker gear. I ran a few yards then stopped. Other people milled around idly, ignoring the panic, smoking and talking in low voices. It was a mainly white, blue-collar scene. All these men wearing flags and carrying crowbars and flashlights. In their company, the intolerance and rage I associated with flags and construction sites was nowhere to be seen. They were dealing with a torn and twisted otherness that dwarfed machismo or bigotry. I talked to a moustachioed, pony-tailed construction worker who’d hitched a ride from the mid-west to “come and help out.” He was staying at the Y, he said, it was kind of rough. “Have you been down there?” he asked, pointing towards the wreckage. “You’re British, you weren’t in World War Two were you?” I replied in the negative. “It’s worse ’n that. I went down last night and you can’t imagine it. You don’t want to see it if you don’t have to.” Did I know any welcoming ladies? he asked. The Y was kind of tough. When I saw TV images of President Bush speaking to the recovery crews and steelworkers at “ground zero” a couple of days later, shouting through a bullhorn to chants of “USA, USA” I knew nothing had changed. New York’s suffering was subject to a second hijacking by the brokers of national unity. New York had never been America, and now its terrible human loss and its great humanity were redesignated in the name of the nation, of the coming war. The signs without a referent were being forcibly appropriated, locked into an impoverished patriotic framework, interpreted for “us” by a compliant media and an opportunistic regime eager to reign in civil liberties, to unloose its war machine and tighten its grip on the Muslim world. That day, drawn to the river again, I had watched F18 fighter jets flying patterns over Manhattan as Bush’s helicopters came in across the river. Otherwise empty of air traffic, “our” skies were being torn up by the military jets: it was somehow the worst sight yet, worse than the wreckage or the bands of disaster tourists on Canal Street, a sign of further violence yet to come. There was a carrier out there beyond New York harbor, there to protect us: the bruising, blustering city once open to all comers. That felt worst of all. In the intervening weeks, we have seen other, more unstable ways of interpreting the signs of September 11 and its aftermath. Many have circulated on the Internet, past the blockages and blockades placed on urban spaces and intellectual life. Karl-Heinz Stockhausen’s work was banished (at least temporarily) from the canon of avant-garde electronic music when he described the attack on las torres gemelas as akin to a work of art. If Jacques Derrida had described it as an act of deconstruction (turning technological modernity literally in on itself), or Jean Baudrillard had announced that the event was so thick with mediation it had not truly taken place, something similar would have happened to them (and still may). This is because, as Don DeLillo so eloquently put it in implicit reaction to the plaintive cry “Why do they hate us?”: “it is the power of American culture to penetrate every wall, home, life and mind”—whether via military action or cultural iconography. All these positions are correct, however grisly and annoying they may be. What GK Chesterton called the “flints and tiles” of nineteenth-century European urban existence were rent asunder like so many victims of high-altitude US bombing raids. As a First-World disaster, it became knowable as the first-ever US “ground zero” such precisely through the high premium immediately set on the lives of Manhattan residents and the rarefied discussion of how to commemorate the high-altitude towers. When, a few weeks later, an American Airlines plane crashed on take-off from Queens, that borough was left open to all comers. Manhattan was locked down, flown over by “friendly” bombers. In stark contrast to the open if desperate faces on the street of 11 September, people went about their business with heads bowed even lower than is customary. Contradictory deconstructions and valuations of Manhattan lives mean that September 11 will live in infamy and hyper-knowability. The vengeful United States government and population continue on their way. Local residents must ponder insurance claims, real-estate values, children’s terrors, and their own roles in something beyond their ken. New York had been forced beyond being the center of the financial world. It had become a military target, a place that was receiving as well as dispatching the slings and arrows of global fortune. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.1 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php>. Chicago Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby, "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 1 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. (2002) A Day That Will Live In … ?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(1). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]).

In a 1999 interview with the online magazine The AV Club, a subsidiary of satirical news website, The Onion, Bret Easton Ellis claimed: “I’ve never written a single scene that I can say took place, I’ve never written a line of dialogue that I’ve heard someone say or that I have said” (qtd. in Klein). Ten years later, in the same magazine, Ellis was reminded of this quote and asked why most of his novels have been perceived as veiled autobiographies. Ellis responded:Well, they are autobiographical in the sense that they reflect who I was at a particular moment in my life. There was talk of a memoir, and I realized why I couldn’t write a memoir, because the books are the memoir—they completely sum up how I was feeling, what I was thinking about, what my obsessions were, what I was fantasizing about, who I was, in a fictional context over the last 25 years or so (qtd. in Tobias).Despite any protestations to the contrary, Bret Easton Ellis’s novels have included various intentional and unintentional disclosures which reflect the author’s personal experiences. This pattern of self-disclosure became most overt in his most recent novel, Lunar Park (2005), in which the narrator shares a name, vocation and many aspects of his personal history with Ellis himself. After two decades and many assumptions made about Ellis’s personal life in the public media, it seems on the surface as if this novel uses disclosure as the site of closure for several rumours and relationships which have haunted his career. It is possible to see how this fictional text transgresses the boundaries between fiction and fact in an attempt to sever the feedback loop between the media’s representation of Ellis and the interpretation of his fictional texts. Yet it is important to note that with Ellis, there is always more beneath the surface. This is evident after only one chapter of Lunar Park when the novel changes form from an autobiography into a fictional ghost story, both of which are told by Bret Easton Ellis, a man who simultaneously reflects and refracts aspects of the real life author.Before analysing Lunar Park, it is helpful to consider the career trajectory which led to its creation. Bret Easton Ellis made his early fame writing semi-fictional accounts of rich, beautiful, young, yet ambitionless members of generation-X, growing up in the 1980s in America. His first novel, Less Than Zero (1985), chronicled the exploits of his protagonists as they drifted from party to party, from one meaningless sexual encounter to another; all while anesthetised on a cocktail of Valium, Prozac, Percocet and various illegal drugs. The brutal realism of his narrative, coupled with the structure—short vignettes like snapshots and short chapters told in simplistic style—led the text to be hailed as the first “MTV Novel” (Annesley 90; see also: Freese).It is not difficult to discover the many similarities that exist between the creator of Less Than Zero and his fictional creation, Clay, the novel’s narrator-protagonist. Both grew up in Los Angeles and headed east to attend a small liberal-arts college. Both Ellis’s and Clay’s parents were divorced and both young men grew up living in a house with their mother and their two sisters. Ellis’s relationship with his father was, by all accounts, as strained as what is represented in the few meetings Clay has with his own father in Less Than Zero. In these scenes, Clay describes a brief, perfunctory lunch meeting in an expensive restaurant in which Clay’s father is too preoccupied by work to acknowledge his son’s presence.Ellis’s second novel, The Rules of Attraction (1987), is set at Camden College, the same college that Clay attends in Less Than Zero. At one point, Clay even guest-narrates a chapter of The Rules of Attraction; the phrase, “people are afraid to walk across campus after midnight” (205) recalls the opening line of Less Than Zero, “people are afraid to merge on highways in Los Angeles” (5). Camden bears quite a few similarities with Bennington College, the college which Ellis himself was attending when Less Than Zero was published and Ellis was catapulted into the limelight. Even Ellis himself has admitted that the book is, “a completely fictionalized portrait of a group of people, all summations of friends I knew” (qtd. in Tobias).The authenticity of Ellis’s narrative voice was considered as an insight which came from participation (A Conversation with Bret Easton Ellis). The depiction of disenfranchised youth in the Reagan era in America was so compelling because Ellis seemed to personify and even embody the malaise and listlessness of his narrators in his public performances and interviews. In the minds of many readers and critics, Ellis’s narrators were a fictional extrapolation of Ellis himself. The association of Ellis to his fictional narrators backfired when Ellis’s third novel, American Psycho (1991), was published. The novel was criticised for its detached depiction of Patrick Bateman, who narrates in minute detail his daily routine which includes an extensive beauty regime, lunchtimes and dinnertimes spent in extravagant New York restaurants, a relationship with a fiancée and a mistress, a job on Wall Street in which he seems to do no real “work,” and his night-time hobby where brutally murders women, homeless men, gay men and even a small child. Bateman’s choice of victims can be interpreted as unconsciously aimed at anyone why may threaten his dominant position as a wealthy, white, heterosexual male. While Bateman kills as many men as he does women, his male victims are killed quickly in sudden bursts of violence. Bateman’s female victims are the subject of brutal torture, prolonged violent sexualized attacks, and in many cases inhumane post-mortem disfigurement and dismemberment.The public reception of American Psycho has been analysed as much as the text itself, (see: Murphet; Brien). Because American Psycho is narrated in the first-person voice of Bateman, there is no escape from his subjectivity. Many, including the National Organization of Women, interpreted this lack of authorial comment as Ellis’s tacit agreement and acceptance of Bateman’s behaviour. Another similar interpretation was made by Roger Rosenblatt in his pre-publication review of American Psycho in which he forthrightly encourages readers to “Snuff this Book” (Rosenblatt). Rosenblatt finds no ironic critique in Ellis’s representation of Bateman, instead finding himself at a loss to understand Ellis’s intention in writing American Psycho, saying “one only assumes, Mr. Ellis disapproves. It's a bit hard to tell what Mr. Ellis intends exactly, because he languishes so comfortably in the swamp he purports to condemn” (n.p.).In much the same way as Ellis’s previous narrators had reflected his experience and opinions, Ellis was considered as accepting and even glorifying the actions of a misogynistic serial killer. Ellis himself has commented on the popularised “misreading” of his novel: “Because I never step in anywhere and say, ‘Hey, this is all wrong,’ people get upset. That’s outrageous to me! Who’s going to say that serial killing is wrong?! Isn’t that a given? There’s no need to say that” (qtd. in. Klein)Ellis himself was treated as if he had committed the actual crimes that Patrick Bateman describes. The irony being that, as I have argued elsewhere (Phillips), there are numerous signs within the text which point to the possibility that Patrick Bateman did not commit the crimes as he claims: he can be interpreted as an unreliable narrator. Although the unreliability is Bateman’s narration doesn’t remove the effect which the reader experiences, it does indicate a distance between the author and the narrator. This distance was overlooked by many critics who interpreted Ellis as agreeing and condoning Bateman’s views and actions.When Ellis’s fourth novel, Glamorama was published, the decadent lifestyle represented in the text was again considered to be a reflection of Ellis’s personal experience. The star-studded parties and glamorous night clubs seemed to be lifted straight out of Ellis’s experience (although, no-one would ever claim that Ellis was a fashion-model-turned-international-terrorist like his narrator, Victor). One reviewer notes that “even when Bret Easton Ellis writes about killer yuppies and terrorist fashion models, a lot of people still think he's writing about himself” (Waldren).With the critical tendency to read an autobiographical confession out of Ellis’s fictional works firmly in place, it is not hard to see why Ellis decided to make the narrator of his fifth novel, Lunar Park, none other than Bret Easton Ellis himself. It is my contention that Lunar Park is the site of disclosures based on the real life of Bret Easton Ellis. I believe that Ellis chose the form of a mock-autobiography-turned-ghost-story as the site of exorcism for the many ghosts which have haunted his career, namely, his public persona and the publication of American Psycho. Ultimately, it is the exorcism of a more personal ghost, namely his father Robert Martin Ellis which provides the most private disclosure in the text and therefore the most touching, truthful and abiding site of closure for the entire novel and for Ellis himself. For ease, I will refer to the narrator of Lunar Park as Bret and the author of Lunar Park as Ellis.On the surface, it appears that Lunar Park is an autobiographical memoir. In one of the many mixed reviews of the novel (see: Murray; "Behind Bret's Mask"; Hand), Steve Almond’s title describes how Ellis masquerading as Ellis “is not a pretty sight” (Almond). The opening chapter is told in autobiographical style and charts Bret’s meteoric rise from college student to member of the literary brat pack (alongside Jay McInerney and Tama Jancowitz), to reviled author of American Psycho (1991) reaching his washed-up, drug-addled and near-death nadir during the Glamorama (1998) book tour. However, careful reading of this chapter reveals that the real-life Ellis is obscuring as much about himself as he appears to be revealing. Although it takes the form of a candid disclosure of his personal life, there are elements of the narrator’s story which do not agree with the public record of the author Ellis.The fictional Bret claims to have attended Camden College, and that his manuscript for Less Than Zero was a college project, discovered by his professor. While the plot of this story does reflect Ellis’s actual experience, he has set Bret’s story at Camden College, the fictional setting of The Rules of Attraction. By adding an element of fiction into the autobiographical account, Ellis is indicating that he is not identical to his narrating counterpart. It also signifies the Bret that exists in the fictional space whereas Ellis resides in the “real world.”In Lunar Park, Bret also talks about his relationship with Jayne Dennis. Jayne is described as a model-turned-actress, an up and coming Hollywood superstar who in the 1980s performed in films alongside Keanu Reeves. Jayne is one of the truly fictional characters in Lunar Park. She doesn’t exist outside of the text, except in two websites which were established to promote the publication of Lunar Park in 2005 (www.jaynedennis.com and www.jayne-dennis.com). While Bret and Jayne are dating, Jayne falls pregnant. Bret begs her to have an abortion. When Jayne decides to keep the child, her relationship with Bret falls apart. Bret meets his son Robby only twice from birth until the age of 10. The relationship between the fictional Bret and the fictional Jayne creates Robby, a fictional offspring who shares a name with Robert Martin Ellis (Bret and Ellis’s father).Many have been tempted to participate in Ellis’s game, to sift fact from fiction in the opening chapter of Lunar Park. Holt and Abbot published a two page point-by-point analysis of where the real-life Ellis diverged from the fictional Bret. The promotional website established by Ellis’s publisher was named www.twobrets.com to invite such a comparison. Although this game is invited by Ellis, he has also publicly stated that there is more to Lunar Park than the comparison between himself and his fictional counterpart:My worry is that people will want to know what’s true and what’s not […] All the things that are in the book—my quote-unquote autobiography—I just don’t want to answer any of those questions. I don’t like demystifying the text (qtd. in Wyatt n.p.)Although Ellis refuses to demystify the text, one of the purposes of inserting himself into the text is to trap readers in this very game, and to confuse fact with fiction. Although the text opens with a chapter which reads like Ellis’s autobiography, careful reading of the textual Bret against the extra-textual Ellis reveals that this chapter contains almost as much fiction as the “ghost story” which fills the remaining 400-odd pages. This ghost story could have been told by any first-person narrator. By writing himself into the text, Ellis is writing his public persona into the fictional character of Bret. One of the effects of blurring the lines between public and private, reality and fiction is that Ellis’s real-life disclosures invite the reader to read the fictional text against their extra-textual knowledge of Ellis himself. In this way, Ellis is able to address the many ghosts which have haunted his career—most importantly the public reception of American Psycho and his public persona. A more personal ghost is the ghost of Ellis’s father who has been written into the text, literally haunting Bret’s home with messages from beyond the grave. Closure occurs when these ghosts have been exorcised. The question is: is Lunar Park Ellis’s attempt to close down the public debates, or to add more fuel to the fire?One of the areas in which Ellis seeks to find closure is in the controversy surrounding American Psycho. Ellis uses his fictional voice to re-write the discourse surrounding the creation and reception of the text. There are deliberate contradictions in Bret’s version of writing American Psycho. In Lunar Park, Bret describes the writing process of American Psycho. In an oddly ornate passage for Ellis (who seldom uses adverbs), Bret describes how he would “fearfully watch my hands as the pen swept across the yellow legal pads” (19) blaming the “spirit” of Patrick Bateman for visiting and causing the book to be written. When it was finished, the “spirit” was “disgustingly satisfied” and stopped “gleefully haunting” Bret’s dreams. This shift in writing style may be an indication of a shift from reality into a fictionalised account of the writing of American Psycho. Much of the plot of Lunar Park is taken up with the consequences of American Psycho, when a madman starts replicating crimes exactly as they appear in the novel. It is almost as if Patrick Bateman is haunting Bret and his family. When informed that his fictional violence has disrupted his quiet suburban existence, Bret laments, “this was the moment that detractors of the book had warned me about: if anything happened to anyone as a result of the publication of this novel, Bret Easton Ellis was to blame” (181-2). By the end of Lunar Park Bret decides to “kill” Patrick Bateman once and for all, by writing an epilogue in which Bateman is burnt alive.On the surface, it appears that Lunar Park is the site of an apology about American Psycho. However, this is not entirely the case. Much of Bret’s description of writing American Psycho is contradictory to Ellis’s personal accounts where he consciously researched the gruesome details of Bateman’s crimes using an FBI training manual (Rose). Although Patrick Bateman is destroyed by the end of Lunar Park, extra-textually, neither Bret nor Ellis is not entirely apologetic for his creation. Bret argues that American Psycho was “about society and manners and mores, and not about cutting up women. How could anyone who read the book not see this?” (182). Extra-textually, in an interview Ellis admitted that when he re-read “the violence sequences I was incredibly upset and shocked […] I can't believe that I wrote that. Looking back, I realize, God, you really sort of stepped over a line there” (qtd. in Wyatt n.p.). However, in that same interview, Ellis admits to lying to reporters if he feels that the reporter is “out to get” him. Therefore, Ellis’s apology may not actually be an apology at all.Lunar Park presents an explanation about how and why American Psycho was written. This explanation is much akin to claiming that “the devil made me do it”, by arguing that Bret was possessed by “the spirit of this madman” (18). While it may seem that this explanation is an attempt to close the vast amount of discussion surrounding why American Psycho was written, Ellis is actually using his fictional persona to address the public outcry about his most controversial novel, providing an apology for a text, which is really no apology at all. Ultimately, the reliability of Bret’s account depends on the reader’s knowledge of Ellis’s public persona. This interplay between the fictional Bret and the real-life Ellis can be seen in Lunar Park’s account of the Glamorama publicity tour. In Lunar Park, Bret describes his own version of the Glamorama book tour. For Bret, this tour functions as his personal nadir, the point in his life where he hits rock bottom and looks to Jayne Dennis as his saviour. Throughout the tour, Bret describes taking all manner of drugs. At one point, threatened by his erratic behaviour, Bret’s publishers asked a personal minder to join the book tour, reporting back on Bret’s actions which include picking at nonexistent scabs, sobbing at his appearance in a hotel mirror and locking himself in a bookstore bathroom for over an hour before emerging and claiming that he had a snake living in his mouth (32-33).The reality of the Glamorama book tour is not anywhere near as wild as that described by Bret in Lunar Park. In reviews and articles addressing the real-life Glamorama book tour, there are no descriptions of these events. One article, from the The Observer (Macdonald), does describe a meeting over lunch where Ellis admits to drinking way too much the night before and then having to deal with phone calls from fans he can’t remember giving his phone-number to. However, as previously mentioned, in that same article a friend of Ellis’s is quoted as saying that Ellis frequently lies to reporters. Bret’s fictional actions seem to confirm Ellis’s real life “party boy” persona. For Moran, “the name of the author [him]self can become merely an image, either used to market a literary product directly or as a kind of free floating signifier within contemporary culture” (61). Lunar Park is about all of the connotations of the name Bret Easton Ellis. It is also a subversion of those expectations. The fictional Glamorama book tour shows Ellis’s media persona taken to an extreme until it becomes a self-embodying parody. In Lunar Park, Ellis is deliberately amplifying his public persona, accepting that no amount of truthful disclosure will erase the image of Bret-the-party-boy. However, the remainder of the novel turns this image on its head by removing Bret from New York and placing him in middle-American suburbia, married, and with two children in tow.Ultimately, although the novel appears as a transgression of fact and fiction, Bret may be the most fictional of all of Ellis’s narrators (with the exception of Patrick Bateman). Bret is married where Ellis is single. Bret is heterosexual whereas Ellis is homosexual, and used the site of Lunar Park to confirm his homosexuality. Bret has children whereas Ellis is childless. Bret has settled down into the heartland of American suburbia, a wife and two children in tow whereas Ellis has made it clear that this lifestyle is not one he is seeking. The novel is presented as the site of Ellis’s personal disclosure, and yet only creates more fictional fodder for the public image of Ellis, there are elements of true and personal disclosures from Ellis life, which he is using the text as the site for his own brand of closure. The most genuine and heartfelt closure is achieved through Ellis’s disclosure of his relationship with his father.The death of Ellis’s father, Robert Martin Ellis has an impact on both the textual and extra-textual levels of Lunar Park. Textually, the novel takes the form of a ghost story, and it is Robert himself who is haunting Bret. These spectral disturbances manifest themselves in Bret’s house which slowly transforms into a representation of his childhood home. Bret also receives nightly e-mails from the bank in which his father’s ashes have been stored in a safe-deposit box. These e-mails contain an attached video file showing the last few moments of Robert Martin Ellis’s life. Bret never finds out who filmed the video. Extra-textually, the death of Robert Martin Ellis is clearly signified in the fact that Lunar Park is dedicated to him as well as Michael Wade Kaplan, two men close to Ellis who have died. The trope of fathers haunting their sons is further highlighted by Ellis’s inter-textual references to Shakespeare’s Hamlet including a quote in the epigraph: “From the table of my memory / I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, / all saws of books, all forms, all pressures past / that youth and observation copied there” (1.5.98-101). The names of various geographical locations in Bret’s neighbourhood: Bret and Jayne live on Elsinore Lane, named for Elsinore castle, Bret also visits Fortinbras Mall, Osric hotel and Ophelia Boulevard. In Hamlet, the son is called upon by the ghost of his father to avenge his death. In Lunar Park, Bret is called upon to avenge himself against the wrongs inflicted upon him by his own father.The ambiguity of the relationships between fathers and sons is summarised in the closing passage of the novel. So, if you should see my son, tell him I say hello, be good, that I am thinking of him and that I know he’s watching over me somewhere, and not to worry: that he can always find me here, whenever he wants, right here, my arms held out and waiting, in the pages, behind the covers, at the end of Lunar Park (453).Although Bret earlier signals the reader to interpret this passage as a message from Bret to his son Robby (45), it is also possible to interpret is as a message from the fictional Robert Martin Ellis to the fictional Bret. In this reading, Lunar Park is not just a novel, a game or a post-modern deconstruction of the fact and fiction binary, it instead becomes an exorcism for the author. The process of writing Lunar Park to casts the spectre of the real-life Robert Martin Ellis out of his life to a place where Bret (and Ellis) can always find him. This relationship is the site not only of disclosure – reflecting Ellis’s own personal angst with his late father – but of closure, where Ellis has channelled his relationship and indeed exorcised his father into the text.Lunar Park contains several forms of disclosures, most of which transgress the line between fiction and fact. Lunar Park does not provide a closure from the tendency to read autobiography into Ellis’s texts, instead, chapter one provides as much fiction as fact, as evident in the discussions of American Psycho and the Glamorama book tour. Although chapter one presents in an autobiographical form, the remainder of the text reveals how fictional “Bret Easton Ellis” really is. Much of Lunar Park can be interpreted as a puzzle whose answer depends on the reader’s knowledge and understanding of the public perception, persona and profile of Bret Easton Ellis himself. Although seeming to provide closure on the surface, by playing with fiction and fact, Lunar Park only opens up more ground for discussion of Ellis, his novels, his persona and his fictional worlds. These are discussions I look forward to participating in, particularly as 2010 will see the publication of Ellis’s sixth novel (and sequel to Less Than Zero), Imperial Bedrooms.Although much of Ellis’s game in Lunar Park is to tease the reader by failing to provide true disclosures or meaningful and finite closure, the ending of the Lunar Park indicates the most honest, heartfelt and abiding closure for the text and for Ellis himself. Devoid of games and extra-textual riddles, the end of the novel is a message from a father to his son. By disclosing details of his troubled relationship with his father, both Ellis and his fictional counterpart Bret are able to exorcise the ghost of Robert Martin Ellis. As the novel closes, the ghost who haunts the text has indeed been exorcised and is now standing, with “arms held out and waiting, in the pages, behind the covers, at the end of Lunar Park” (453). ReferencesAlmond, Steve. "Ellis Masquerades as Ellis, and It Is Not a Pretty Sight." Boston Globe 14 Aug. 2005.Annesley, James. Blank Fictions: Consumerism, Culture and the Contemporary American Novel. London: Pluto Press, 1998."Behind Bret's Mask." Manchester Evening News 10 Oct. 2005.Brien, Donna Lee. "The Real Filth in American Psycho: A Critical Reassessment." M/C Journal 9.5 (2006). 30 Nov. 2009 < http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/01-brien.php >.Ellis, Bret Easton. Less than Zero. London: Vintage, 1985.–––. The Rules of Attraction. London: Vintage, 1987.–––. American Psycho. London: Picador, 1991.–––. Glamorama. New York: Knopf, 1998.–––. Lunar Park. New York: Knopf, 2005.Freese, Peter. "Bret Easton Ellis, Less than Zero; Entropy in the 'Mtv Novel'?" Modes of Narrative: Approaches to American, Canadian and British Fiction. Eds. Reingard Nishik and Barbara Korts. Wurzburg: Konighausen and Naumann, 1990. 68–87. Hand, Elizabeth. "House of Horrors; Bret Easton Ellis, the Author of 'American Psycho,' Rips into His Most Frightening Subject Yet—Himself." The Washington Post 21 Aug. 2005.Klein, Joshua. "Interview with Bret Easton Ellis." The Onion AV Club 17 Mar.(1999). 5 Sep. 2009 < http://www.avclub.com/articles/bret-easton-ellis,13586/ >.Macdonald, Marianna. “Interview—Bret Easton Ellis—All Cut Up.” The Observer 28 June 1998.Moran, Joe. Star Authors. London: Pluto Press, 2000.Murphet, Julian. Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho: A Reader's Guide. New York: Continuum, 2002.Murray, Noel. "Lunar Park [Review]." The Onion AV Club 2 Aug. 2005. 1 Nov. 2009 < http://www.avclub.com/articles/lunar-park,4393/ >.Phillips, Jennifer. "Unreliable Narration in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho: Interaction between Narrative Form and Thematic Content." Current Narratives 1.1 (2009): 60–68.Rose, Charlie. “A Conversation with Bret Easton Ellis”. The Charlie Rose Show. Prod. Charlie Rose and Yvette Vega. PBS. 7 Sep. 1994. Rosenblatt, Roger. "Snuff This Book! Will Bret Easton Ellis Get Away with Murder?" The New York Times 16 Dec. 1990: Arts.Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Ed. Graham Holderness and Bryan Loughrey. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1992.Tobias, Scott. "Bret Easton Ellis (Interview)". The Onion AV Club 22 Apr. 2009. 31 Aug. 2009 < http://www.avclub.com/articles/bret-easton-ellis%2C26988/1/ >.Wyatt, Edward. "Bret Easton Ellis: The Man in the Mirror." The New York Times 7 Aug. 2005: Arts.

The changing role of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration This study aims to increase our understanding of the role of social housing organisations in neighbourhood regeneration governance networks, in order to enhance the performance and outcomes of these networks. Our understanding of how governance networks work is still limited, especially concerning the role of non-state actors like housing associations. Hierarchical government steering is increasingly mixed with market mechanisms and networked forms of decision-making. These shifts in governance often result in more complex decision-making that can easily lead to deadlocks, low-quality outcomes and ambiguous anchorage of democratic principles. Neighbourhood regeneration takes place in rather exceptional governance networks. The organisations involved, and the problems at hand, are place-based. Actors, like housing associations, local authorities and community organisations, are more or less ‘locked’ into the regeneration network and need to collaborate in order to solve the problems. The complexity of neighbourhood renewal processes is often very high, due to the large number of actors involved, and the combination of insufficient housing quality, lack of affordability and supply, along with social and economic problems that need to be addressed. Housing associations focus on the delivery of affordable decent quality housing; but, in many countries—like the Netherlands and England—these organisations also have an important role in neighbourhood regeneration. Housing associations are non-profit organisations that provide housing for low and moderate-income households. They operate largely autonomously from the government, although they are often strongly regulated and dependent on government subsidies. Housing associations in England and the Netherlands share many organisational characteristics and hybrid third-sector values emerging from the need to balance social and economic objectives. They have largely similar tasks and responsibilities, but work in very divergent contexts. This study devotes careful attention to the contingencies of time and place of decisionmaking in order to regenerate insights that are also relevant outside the case-study areas. Therefore, this study places Dutch and English housing associations in their respective political economies, welfare regimes and rental housing systems. The study also highlights the ambiguous position—between state, market, and society—of housing associations. Neighbourhood regeneration evolved from slum clearance and complete area redevelopment in the 1950s and 1960s, towards more integral place-based approaches—in the 1970s and 1980s—with a stronger emphasis on improving the existing housing stock and involving local communities. The nature of the involvement of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration has changed over time in response to government policies, public opinion, their own strategies, and the strategies of their umbrella organisations. In both England and the Netherlands, their increasingly prominent role —especially after the start of the new millennium—was driven by pressures on housing associations to take a leading role in neighbourhood regeneration. A governance network perspective on neighbourhood regeneration The emergence of the ‘network society’ has led to a fragmentation of power and resources. This fragmentation has led to increased interdependence of actors; public, private and community actors need to collaborate to solve problems. This study uses a governance network approach to explore the complexity and uncertainties involved in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making. The study explores five interrelated questions [see Chapter 1, §1.2], each related to a component of a theoretical framework on decision-making in a network setting. These questions involve context, networks, actors, processes and outcomes. In order to answer the research questions, a qualitative, comparative, longitudinal exploration based on a case study methodology, was conducted. To ensure that comparable cases were explored, similar ‘focal actors’ were chosen (i.e. housing associations), as well as similar ‘policy outputs’ as starting points for the study (i.e. the drafting of neighbourhood regeneration plans). Based on these criteria, housing association Midland Heart, and the neighbourhood Lozells in North/West Birmingham, was selected as the English case study. In the Netherlands, housing association De Huismeesters, and De Hoogte, a neighbourhood in Groningen, were selected. Personal accounts have been an important data source for this study; 70 interviews with 45 different individuals were conducted between 2007 and 2014 in Groningen, and Birmingham. In addition, for the case study in The Hague (Chapter 5), around 25 interviews were conducted in 2004. That chapter was a first introduction to the explanatory capabilities of the network governance perspective. Research results The introductory chapter explores contextual factors—such as economic, social and political developments—that affect the role of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration. Chapters 3 through 7 contain sections which describe the context relevant to that specific chapter. Chapter 8 is more reflective in nature and discusses the impact of post-crisis ‘Big Society’ (UK), and Participation Society (NL) government policies, as contingency factors for the role of housing associations in relation to local communities. Finally, Chapter 9 brings all the components of the theoretical framework together and especially reflects on the significant impact of contextual developments on the role played by housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making, and delivery. This research also highlighted the strong network relationships between housing associations and local authorities, but also revealed the often troublesome interactions between housing associations and residents. The title of this thesis: “Networks and Fault lines” is intended to reflect this. This research took place in a period of unexpectedly dynamic economic, social and political developments, i.e. the global financial crisis, the housing-market downturn, government austerity, and a more restricted interpretation of the state’s role in delivering welfare services. The impacts of these developments varied across the two cases. The Dutch housing association proved more resilient to contextual developments than its English counterpart; especially its ability to continue the neighbourhood investment programme. National government funding was less important to the Dutch housing association: the organisation already had access to neighbourhood regeneration investment resources. Other contextual factors, such as the characteristics of the national political economies, welfare and housing systems, indirectly affected the role played by housing associations. These factors mainly influenced the characteristics of the governance networks and the decision-making processes within these networks. Explored through the networks component are the characteristics of the governance networks that housing associations participate in: interdependencies, strength of network relations, and the nature of the coordination mechanisms that underline decision-making. The key concepts to exploring networks are introduced in Chapter 2, and further developed in Chapters 3, 5 and 7. We found high levels of uncertainty, generated by the variety of, and the interdependencies between, actors, the closed-mindedness of actors to the arguments of other parties, and the changes in composition of the governance network. For example, the research found substantial cross-national differences, and indications that network characteristics change and fluctuate over time. In contrast to the situation in Groningen, the dependency of the Birmingham network on external government funding negatively affected the stability and the performance of that network. In Groningen, top-down government intervention also negatively affected the stability of the network, but for other reasons. The, short-lived, abundance of resources for regeneration led to such a high number of new actors, issues, goals and decision-making arenas that the governance network was unable to function properly for some time. The network actors increased the complexity of policy games of their own volition. Sometimes, this was induced by the national government, when local network actors responded to steering instruments such as government subsidies. This led to more network complexity and dynamics in the form of new goals, network actors and decision-making arenas. The third research component—the actors— explored the perceptions and objectives of housing associations, and other key network actors concerning neighbourhood regeneration investments and activities. Housing associations in both case-study areas took a prominent role in neighbourhood regeneration activities, and collaborated closely with local authority departments in drafting regeneration plans. The housing associations regarded improving the quality and variety of the local housing stock as an important element in creating a more mixed community, and retaining and attracting more affluent households. The local authorities supported this predominantly longterm ambition. Residents were more concerned with tackling short-term liveability issues, such as anti-social behaviour, crime and litter. The role of housing associations changed during the 2007-2014 fieldwork period. From occupying a leading role in the regeneration process—in partnership with the local authority—at the start of the exploration in 2007, this role transformed into a more facilitating and supporting role. This appears to have been brought about by two related factors: a serious decline in available regeneration resources, and an increased emphasis on the responsibilities of individual residents and local communities under the influence of the Participation Society agenda, in the Netherlands, and the Localism agenda in England. Residents and private-sector organisations were rarely directly involved in regeneration decision-making. With a little hindsight, one could formulate the contention that these actors were not fully represented in the governance network because the incumbent network actors (i.e. the housing associations and local authorities) chose the devil they knew. They opted for state involvement to acquire investment resources, rather than facing the uncertainties that would have resulted from expanding the network to include residents and private-sector organisations as full and mature network actors. Decision-making processes constitute the fourth component of this study. It explored the decision-making interactions inside the neighbourhood regeneration networks, with a special focus on the interaction strategies used by housing associations. This study found that housing associations in the Groningen and Birmingham cases had a prominent and often leading role in the policy arenas where regeneration policies were developed. National governments in both countries had a strong impact on how these processes evolved, leveraged by the alluring investment resources offered by national regeneration programmes, and the preconditions accompanying these resources. Decision-making took place in arenas that almost exclusively consisted of housing association and local authority professionals. Residents were largely given a consumerist role in the process: their views on neighbourhood needs were collected through various instruments to involve residents, such as surveys and street interviews. Their views were, implicitly, taken into account in the decision-making. Residents were most often not part of these processes and not involved in the development of regeneration investments plans. Not all decision-making arenas were closed to residents. The housing associations in both case-study areas did involve residents as co-decision-makers in more ‘hands-on’ neighbourhood issues such as improving playareas, tackling garbage and litter problems. Decision-making conflicts and deadlocks were rather limited in the investigated governance networks. There was a strong impetus for the housing associations and the local authorities to reach agreements: no consensus would very likely mean no national government funding. Housing associations and local authorities used rather traditional instruments to facilitate decision-making, such as limiting the number of actors involved, and enforcing strict time constraints on decision-making processes. Outcomes are the fifth and last component of this study. In this component we explored how the network—and housing associations in particular—contributed to decision-making and neighbourhood regeneration outcomes. It is evident that the housing associations in the case-study areas contributed significantly to neighbourhood regeneration activities, not only because they channelled considerable investments into the areas, but also due to their strong network relations and frequent interactions with government agencies and local communities. The actions of network actors have improved the quality of some parts of the housing stock. Joint projects have been delivered to improve the public realm and contribute to neighbourhood safety. The research found that actors used very divergent process, input, output and outcome yardsticks to measure success, ranging from the number of projects and activities started, to the amount of money spent, the increase in resident satisfaction, the number of decision-making conflicts overcome, and the improvement achieved in quality-of-life indicators. These yardsticks changed over time and varied from actor to actor. This demonstrated how fluid the assessment of regeneration outcomes can be. New rounds of decision-making, as well as new network actors, led to a review of old decisions, sometimes with a different assessment of the outcomes achieved. Challenges for governance network approaches The governance network perspective has supported the exploration of the role played by housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making. It has increased our understanding of the complexity and the uncertainties involved in networked forms of decision-making. Governance network theory helped us identify instruments and strategies used by housing associations and local authorities to support regeneration decision-making. The governance network perspective is a rather new academic discipline that can be further developed. This study contributed to this development by addressing some issues and challenges; firstly, the role of residents in decision-making arenas, and secondly, the assessment of governance network outcomes. The theoretical and methodological implications of residents as neighbourhood regeneration co-producers Policy-makers expect a more active role of residents and local communities in the co-production of neighbourhood regeneration. This more inclusive approach may contribute to the quality and legitimacy of decisions made in governance networks, but the efficiency of decision-making will most probably not benefit. The trade-off between efficiency and legitimacy that arises from increased resident involvement is a challenge that calls for the further development of the governance network theory. This research suggests several avenues that could be followed to address this challenge. Firstly, a more extensive use of Habermas’s Theory of Communicative Action, as explored in Chapter 8, might be undertaken to supplement the governance network theory. Secondly, more use could be made of the body of knowledge and theories developed in England during the New Labour government (1997-2010), which was often explicitly concerned with networks that linked governments with citizens and local communities [see Chapter 9]. The assessment of governance network outcomes Co-production of neighbourhood regeneration can lead to more democratic and inclusive approaches to decision-making. This is likely to result in better outcomes, but not necessarily in greater consensus among the actors involved. Within network governance approaches, there is a tendency to define satisfactory outcomes as those that enjoy the greatest joint support of the actors involved in the process. More inclusive approaches, which engage a wider range of actors, might appear to be less successful as the benchmark of satisfaction is raised to include a wider range of preferences and experiences. Therefore, we need a more refined assessment of outcomes produced by increasingly heterogeneous networks. Governance network approaches could develop methods – or develop connections with other theories and methodologies – that help evaluate the success of governance networks by combining substantive regeneration outcomes, actor and stakeholder satisfaction, and network learning. Preventing ‘cherry picking’ in the use of assessment yardsticks is essential, given the disinclination of actors to closely scrutinise the outcomes produced by governance networks (as found in this research). Further development of network governance approaches may increase our understanding of how actors construct the yardsticks to evaluate success, and provide tools to facilitate a more comprehensive assessment of network outcomes [See chapter 9]. Housing associations as champions of networks in vulnerable neighbourhoods This research demonstrated that housing associations can play an important stabilising and cohesion-enhancing role in neighbourhood regeneration networks. Their interests are vested in the value of the local housing stock, and this financial incentive secures some level of commitment to vulnerable neighbourhoods. Their hybrid characteristics enable housing associations to collaborate with community, market and government organisations. Moreover, their professional capabilities and their relatively-easy access to resources allow them to champion neighbourhood needs, in cases where communities lack the capacity or cohesiveness to champion their own. Using the leeway that housing associations have, as a hybrid organisation, is an extremely delicate exercise. They should seek a balance between the very different and variable expectations of the outside world. This balancing act is only attainable when housing associations can combine proficiency in network management, with increased accountability. Each neighbourhood is different, and housing associations should take a role that is appropriate to each neighbourhood. To do this, they should increase their knowledge of the neighbourhood challenges and assess the capabilities of residents and the local community to address these problems. Housing associations can support the development of governance networks to address these problems by helping craft networks in such a way that they include all relevant parties, and by providing small but stable funding to support network development and by improving accountability in decision-making processes. There are strong arguments for housing associations to take a central role in neighbourhood regeneration. Housing associations are among the most prominent frontline agencies supporting vulnerable people and places. Through their housing stock, they are literally ‘anchored’ in the most deprived communities. Housing associations should not become the ‘jack-of-all-trades’ in neighbourhood regeneration, but can help develop, nurture and maintain well-functioning and stable regeneration networks which vulnerable neighbourhoods need. Housing associations can be the long-haul champion that neighbourhoods and local communities need.

The changing role of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration This study aims to increase our understanding of the role of social housing organisations in neighbourhood regeneration governance networks, in order to enhance the performance and outcomes of these networks. Our understanding of how governance networks work is still limited, especially concerning the role of non-state actors like housing associations. Hierarchical government steering is increasingly mixed with market mechanisms and networked forms of decision-making. These shifts in governance often result in more complex decision-making that can easily lead to deadlocks, low-quality outcomes and ambiguous anchorage of democratic principles. Neighbourhood regeneration takes place in rather exceptional governance networks. The organisations involved, and the problems at hand, are place-based. Actors, like housing associations, local authorities and community organisations, are more or less ‘locked’ into the regeneration network and need to collaborate in order to solve the problems. The complexity of neighbourhood renewal processes is often very high, due to the large number of actors involved, and the combination of insufficient housing quality, lack of affordability and supply, along with social and economic problems that need to be addressed. Housing associations focus on the delivery of affordable decent quality housing; but, in many countries—like the Netherlands and England—these organisations also have an important role in neighbourhood regeneration. Housing associations are non-profit organisations that provide housing for low and moderate-income households. They operate largely autonomously from the government, although they are often strongly regulated and dependent on government subsidies. Housing associations in England and the Netherlands share many organisational characteristics and hybrid third-sector values emerging from the need to balance social and economic objectives. They have largely similar tasks and responsibilities, but work in very divergent contexts. This study devotes careful attention to the contingencies of time and place of decisionmaking in order to regenerate insights that are also relevant outside the case-study areas. Therefore, this study places Dutch and English housing associations in their respective political economies, welfare regimes and rental housing systems. The study also highlights the ambiguous position—between state, market, and society—of housing associations. Neighbourhood regeneration evolved from slum clearance and complete area redevelopment in the 1950s and 1960s, towards more integral place-based approaches—in the 1970s and 1980s—with a stronger emphasis on improving the existing housing stock and involving local communities. The nature of the involvement of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration has changed over time in response to government policies, public opinion, their own strategies, and the strategies of their umbrella organisations. In both England and the Netherlands, their increasingly prominent role —especially after the start of the new millennium—was driven by pressures on housing associations to take a leading role in neighbourhood regeneration. A governance network perspective on neighbourhood regeneration The emergence of the ‘network society’ has led to a fragmentation of power and resources. This fragmentation has led to increased interdependence of actors; public, private and community actors need to collaborate to solve problems. This study uses a governance network approach to explore the complexity and uncertainties involved in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making. The study explores five interrelated questions [see Chapter 1, §1.2], each related to a component of a theoretical framework on decision-making in a network setting. These questions involve context, networks, actors, processes and outcomes. In order to answer the research questions, a qualitative, comparative, longitudinal exploration based on a case study methodology, was conducted. To ensure that comparable cases were explored, similar ‘focal actors’ were chosen (i.e. housing associations), as well as similar ‘policy outputs’ as starting points for the study (i.e. the drafting of neighbourhood regeneration plans). Based on these criteria, housing association Midland Heart, and the neighbourhood Lozells in North/West Birmingham, was selected as the English case study. In the Netherlands, housing association De Huismeesters, and De Hoogte, a neighbourhood in Groningen, were selected. Personal accounts have been an important data source for this study; 70 interviews with 45 different individuals were conducted between 2007 and 2014 in Groningen, and Birmingham. In addition, for the case study in The Hague (Chapter 5), around 25 interviews were conducted in 2004. That chapter was a first introduction to the explanatory capabilities of the network governance perspective. Research results The introductory chapter explores contextual factors—such as economic, social and political developments—that affect the role of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration. Chapters 3 through 7 contain sections which describe the context relevant to that specific chapter. Chapter 8 is more reflective in nature and discusses the impact of post-crisis ‘Big Society’ (UK), and Participation Society (NL) government policies, as contingency factors for the role of housing associations in relation to local communities. Finally, Chapter 9 brings all the components of the theoretical framework together and especially reflects on the significant impact of contextual developments on the role played by housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making, and delivery. This research also highlighted the strong network relationships between housing associations and local authorities, but also revealed the often troublesome interactions between housing associations and residents. The title of this thesis: “Networks and Fault lines” is intended to reflect this. This research took place in a period of unexpectedly dynamic economic, social and political developments, i.e. the global financial crisis, the housing-market downturn, government austerity, and a more restricted interpretation of the state’s role in delivering welfare services. The impacts of these developments varied across the two cases. The Dutch housing association proved more resilient to contextual developments than its English counterpart; especially its ability to continue the neighbourhood investment programme. National government funding was less important to the Dutch housing association: the organisation already had access to neighbourhood regeneration investment resources. Other contextual factors, such as the characteristics of the national political economies, welfare and housing systems, indirectly affected the role played by housing associations. These factors mainly influenced the characteristics of the governance networks and the decision-making processes within these networks. Explored through the networks component are the characteristics of the governance networks that housing associations participate in: interdependencies, strength of network relations, and the nature of the coordination mechanisms that underline decision-making. The key concepts to exploring networks are introduced in Chapter 2, and further developed in Chapters 3, 5 and 7. We found high levels of uncertainty, generated by the variety of, and the interdependencies between, actors, the closed-mindedness of actors to the arguments of other parties, and the changes in composition of the governance network. For example, the research found substantial cross-national differences, and indications that network characteristics change and fluctuate over time. In contrast to the situation in Groningen, the dependency of the Birmingham network on external government funding negatively affected the stability and the performance of that network. In Groningen, top-down government intervention also negatively affected the stability of the network, but for other reasons. The, short-lived, abundance of resources for regeneration led to such a high number of new actors, issues, goals and decision-making arenas that the governance network was unable to function properly for some time. The network actors increased the complexity of policy games of their own volition. Sometimes, this was induced by the national government, when local network actors responded to steering instruments such as government subsidies. This led to more network complexity and dynamics in the form of new goals, network actors and decision-making arenas. The third research component—the actors— explored the perceptions and objectives of housing associations, and other key network actors concerning neighbourhood regeneration investments and activities. Housing associations in both case-study areas took a prominent role in neighbourhood regeneration activities, and collaborated closely with local authority departments in drafting regeneration plans. The housing associations regarded improving the quality and variety of the local housing stock as an important element in creating a more mixed community, and retaining and attracting more affluent households. The local authorities supported this predominantly longterm ambition. Residents were more concerned with tackling short-term liveability issues, such as anti-social behaviour, crime and litter. The role of housing associations changed during the 2007-2014 fieldwork period. From occupying a leading role in the regeneration process—in partnership with the local authority—at the start of the exploration in 2007, this role transformed into a more facilitating and supporting role. This appears to have been brought about by two related factors: a serious decline in available regeneration resources, and an increased emphasis on the responsibilities of individual residents and local communities under the influence of the Participation Society agenda, in the Netherlands, and the Localism agenda in England. Residents and private-sector organisations were rarely directly involved in regeneration decision-making. With a little hindsight, one could formulate the contention that these actors were not fully represented in the governance network because the incumbent network actors (i.e. the housing associations and local authorities) chose the devil they knew. They opted for state involvement to acquire investment resources, rather than facing the uncertainties that would have resulted from expanding the network to include residents and private-sector organisations as full and mature network actors. Decision-making processes constitute the fourth component of this study. It explored the decision-making interactions inside the neighbourhood regeneration networks, with a special focus on the interaction strategies used by housing associations. This study found that housing associations in the Groningen and Birmingham cases had a prominent and often leading role in the policy arenas where regeneration policies were developed. National governments in both countries had a strong impact on how these processes evolved, leveraged by the alluring investment resources offered by national regeneration programmes, and the preconditions accompanying these resources. Decision-making took place in arenas that almost exclusively consisted of housing association and local authority professionals. Residents were largely given a consumerist role in the process: their views on neighbourhood needs were collected through various instruments to involve residents, such as surveys and street interviews. Their views were, implicitly, taken into account in the decision-making. Residents were most often not part of these processes and not involved in the development of regeneration investments plans. Not all decision-making arenas were closed to residents. The housing associations in both case-study areas did involve residents as co-decision-makers in more ‘hands-on’ neighbourhood issues such as improving playareas, tackling garbage and litter problems. Decision-making conflicts and deadlocks were rather limited in the investigated governance networks. There was a strong impetus for the housing associations and the local authorities to reach agreements: no consensus would very likely mean no national government funding. Housing associations and local authorities used rather traditional instruments to facilitate decision-making, such as limiting the number of actors involved, and enforcing strict time constraints on decision-making processes. Outcomes are the fifth and last component of this study. In this component we explored how the network—and housing associations in particular—contributed to decision-making and neighbourhood regeneration outcomes. It is evident that the housing associations in the case-study areas contributed significantly to neighbourhood regeneration activities, not only because they channelled considerable investments into the areas, but also due to their strong network relations and frequent interactions with government agencies and local communities. The actions of network actors have improved the quality of some parts of the housing stock. Joint projects have been delivered to improve the public realm and contribute to neighbourhood safety. The research found that actors used very divergent process, input, output and outcome yardsticks to measure success, ranging from the number of projects and activities started, to the amount of money spent, the increase in resident satisfaction, the number of decision-making conflicts overcome, and the improvement achieved in quality-of-life indicators. These yardsticks changed over time and varied from actor to actor. This demonstrated how fluid the assessment of regeneration outcomes can be. New rounds of decision-making, as well as new network actors, led to a review of old decisions, sometimes with a different assessment of the outcomes achieved. Challenges for governance network approaches The governance network perspective has supported the exploration of the role played by housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making. It has increased our understanding of the complexity and the uncertainties involved in networked forms of decision-making. Governance network theory helped us identify instruments and strategies used by housing associations and local authorities to support regeneration decision-making. The governance network perspective is a rather new academic discipline that can be further developed. This study contributed to this development by addressing some issues and challenges; firstly, the role of residents in decision-making arenas, and secondly, the assessment of governance network outcomes. The theoretical and methodological implications of residents as neighbourhood regeneration co-producers Policy-makers expect a more active role of residents and local communities in the co-production of neighbourhood regeneration. This more inclusive approach may contribute to the quality and legitimacy of decisions made in governance networks, but the efficiency of decision-making will most probably not benefit. The trade-off between efficiency and legitimacy that arises from increased resident involvement is a challenge that calls for the further development of the governance network theory. This research suggests several avenues that could be followed to address this challenge. Firstly, a more extensive use of Habermas’s Theory of Communicative Action, as explored in Chapter 8, might be undertaken to supplement the governance network theory. Secondly, more use could be made of the body of knowledge and theories developed in England during the New Labour government (1997-2010), which was often explicitly concerned with networks that linked governments with citizens and local communities [see Chapter 9]. The assessment of governance network outcomes Co-production of neighbourhood regeneration can lead to more democratic and inclusive approaches to decision-making. This is likely to result in better outcomes, but not necessarily in greater consensus among the actors involved. Within network governance approaches, there is a tendency to define satisfactory outcomes as those that enjoy the greatest joint support of the actors involved in the process. More inclusive approaches, which engage a wider range of actors, might appear to be less successful as the benchmark of satisfaction is raised to include a wider range of preferences and experiences. Therefore, we need a more refined assessment of outcomes produced by increasingly heterogeneous networks. Governance network approaches could develop methods – or develop connections with other theories and methodologies – that help evaluate the success of governance networks by combining substantive regeneration outcomes, actor and stakeholder satisfaction, and network learning. Preventing ‘cherry picking’ in the use of assessment yardsticks is essential, given the disinclination of actors to closely scrutinise the outcomes produced by governance networks (as found in this research). Further development of network governance approaches may increase our understanding of how actors construct the yardsticks to evaluate success, and provide tools to facilitate a more comprehensive assessment of network outcomes [See chapter 9]. Housing associations as champions of networks in vulnerable neighbourhoods This research demonstrated that housing associations can play an important stabilising and cohesion-enhancing role in neighbourhood regeneration networks. Their interests are vested in the value of the local housing stock, and this financial incentive secures some level of commitment to vulnerable neighbourhoods. Their hybrid characteristics enable housing associations to collaborate with community, market and government organisations. Moreover, their professional capabilities and their relatively-easy access to resources allow them to champion neighbourhood needs, in cases where communities lack the capacity or cohesiveness to champion their own. Using the leeway that housing associations have, as a hybrid organisation, is an extremely delicate exercise. They should seek a balance between the very different and variable expectations of the outside world. This balancing act is only attainable when housing associations can combine proficiency in network management, with increased accountability. Each neighbourhood is different, and housing associations should take a role that is appropriate to each neighbourhood. To do this, they should increase their knowledge of the neighbourhood challenges and assess the capabilities of residents and the local community to address these problems. Housing associations can support the development of governance networks to address these problems by helping craft networks in such a way that they include all relevant parties, and by providing small but stable funding to support network development and by improving accountability in decision-making processes. There are strong arguments for housing associations to take a central role in neighbourhood regeneration. Housing associations are among the most prominent frontline agencies supporting vulnerable people and places. Through their housing stock, they are literally ‘anchored’ in the most deprived communities. Housing associations should not become the ‘jack-of-all-trades’ in neighbourhood regeneration, but can help develop, nurture and maintain well-functioning and stable regeneration networks which vulnerable neighbourhoods need. Housing associations can be the long-haul champion that neighbourhoods and local communities need.

The changing role of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration This study aims to increase our understanding of the role of social housing organisations in neighbourhood regeneration governance networks, in order to enhance the performance and outcomes of these networks. Our understanding of how governance networks work is still limited, especially concerning the role of non-state actors like housing associations. Hierarchical government steering is increasingly mixed with market mechanisms and networked forms of decision-making. These shifts in governance often result in more complex decision-making that can easily lead to deadlocks, low-quality outcomes and ambiguous anchorage of democratic principles. Neighbourhood regeneration takes place in rather exceptional governance networks. The organisations involved, and the problems at hand, are place-based. Actors, like housing associations, local authorities and community organisations, are more or less ‘locked’ into the regeneration network and need to collaborate in order to solve the problems. The complexity of neighbourhood renewal processes is often very high, due to the large number of actors involved, and the combination of insufficient housing quality, lack of affordability and supply, along with social and economic problems that need to be addressed. Housing associations focus on the delivery of affordable decent quality housing; but, in many countries—like the Netherlands and England—these organisations also have an important role in neighbourhood regeneration. Housing associations are non-profit organisations that provide housing for low and moderate-income households. They operate largely autonomously from the government, although they are often strongly regulated and dependent on government subsidies. Housing associations in England and the Netherlands share many organisational characteristics and hybrid third-sector values emerging from the need to balance social and economic objectives. They have largely similar tasks and responsibilities, but work in very divergent contexts. This study devotes careful attention to the contingencies of time and place of decisionmaking in order to regenerate insights that are also relevant outside the case-study areas. Therefore, this study places Dutch and English housing associations in their respective political economies, welfare regimes and rental housing systems. The study also highlights the ambiguous position—between state, market, and society—of housing associations. Neighbourhood regeneration evolved from slum clearance and complete area redevelopment in the 1950s and 1960s, towards more integral place-based approaches—in the 1970s and 1980s—with a stronger emphasis on improving the existing housing stock and involving local communities. The nature of the involvement of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration has changed over time in response to government policies, public opinion, their own strategies, and the strategies of their umbrella organisations. In both England and the Netherlands, their increasingly prominent role —especially after the start of the new millennium—was driven by pressures on housing associations to take a leading role in neighbourhood regeneration. A governance network perspective on neighbourhood regeneration The emergence of the ‘network society’ has led to a fragmentation of power and resources. This fragmentation has led to increased interdependence of actors; public, private and community actors need to collaborate to solve problems. This study uses a governance network approach to explore the complexity and uncertainties involved in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making. The study explores five interrelated questions [see Chapter 1, §1.2], each related to a component of a theoretical framework on decision-making in a network setting. These questions involve context, networks, actors, processes and outcomes. In order to answer the research questions, a qualitative, comparative, longitudinal exploration based on a case study methodology, was conducted. To ensure that comparable cases were explored, similar ‘focal actors’ were chosen (i.e. housing associations), as well as similar ‘policy outputs’ as starting points for the study (i.e. the drafting of neighbourhood regeneration plans). Based on these criteria, housing association Midland Heart, and the neighbourhood Lozells in North/West Birmingham, was selected as the English case study. In the Netherlands, housing association De Huismeesters, and De Hoogte, a neighbourhood in Groningen, were selected. Personal accounts have been an important data source for this study; 70 interviews with 45 different individuals were conducted between 2007 and 2014 in Groningen, and Birmingham. In addition, for the case study in The Hague (Chapter 5), around 25 interviews were conducted in 2004. That chapter was a first introduction to the explanatory capabilities of the network governance perspective. Research results The introductory chapter explores contextual factors—such as economic, social and political developments—that affect the role of housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration. Chapters 3 through 7 contain sections which describe the context relevant to that specific chapter. Chapter 8 is more reflective in nature and discusses the impact of post-crisis ‘Big Society’ (UK), and Participation Society (NL) government policies, as contingency factors for the role of housing associations in relation to local communities. Finally, Chapter 9 brings all the components of the theoretical framework together and especially reflects on the significant impact of contextual developments on the role played by housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making, and delivery. This research also highlighted the strong network relationships between housing associations and local authorities, but also revealed the often troublesome interactions between housing associations and residents. The title of this thesis: “Networks and Fault lines” is intended to reflect this. This research took place in a period of unexpectedly dynamic economic, social and political developments, i.e. the global financial crisis, the housing-market downturn, government austerity, and a more restricted interpretation of the state’s role in delivering welfare services. The impacts of these developments varied across the two cases. The Dutch housing association proved more resilient to contextual developments than its English counterpart; especially its ability to continue the neighbourhood investment programme. National government funding was less important to the Dutch housing association: the organisation already had access to neighbourhood regeneration investment resources. Other contextual factors, such as the characteristics of the national political economies, welfare and housing systems, indirectly affected the role played by housing associations. These factors mainly influenced the characteristics of the governance networks and the decision-making processes within these networks. Explored through the networks component are the characteristics of the governance networks that housing associations participate in: interdependencies, strength of network relations, and the nature of the coordination mechanisms that underline decision-making. The key concepts to exploring networks are introduced in Chapter 2, and further developed in Chapters 3, 5 and 7. We found high levels of uncertainty, generated by the variety of, and the interdependencies between, actors, the closed-mindedness of actors to the arguments of other parties, and the changes in composition of the governance network. For example, the research found substantial cross-national differences, and indications that network characteristics change and fluctuate over time. In contrast to the situation in Groningen, the dependency of the Birmingham network on external government funding negatively affected the stability and the performance of that network. In Groningen, top-down government intervention also negatively affected the stability of the network, but for other reasons. The, short-lived, abundance of resources for regeneration led to such a high number of new actors, issues, goals and decision-making arenas that the governance network was unable to function properly for some time. The network actors increased the complexity of policy games of their own volition. Sometimes, this was induced by the national government, when local network actors responded to steering instruments such as government subsidies. This led to more network complexity and dynamics in the form of new goals, network actors and decision-making arenas. The third research component—the actors— explored the perceptions and objectives of housing associations, and other key network actors concerning neighbourhood regeneration investments and activities. Housing associations in both case-study areas took a prominent role in neighbourhood regeneration activities, and collaborated closely with local authority departments in drafting regeneration plans. The housing associations regarded improving the quality and variety of the local housing stock as an important element in creating a more mixed community, and retaining and attracting more affluent households. The local authorities supported this predominantly longterm ambition. Residents were more concerned with tackling short-term liveability issues, such as anti-social behaviour, crime and litter. The role of housing associations changed during the 2007-2014 fieldwork period. From occupying a leading role in the regeneration process—in partnership with the local authority—at the start of the exploration in 2007, this role transformed into a more facilitating and supporting role. This appears to have been brought about by two related factors: a serious decline in available regeneration resources, and an increased emphasis on the responsibilities of individual residents and local communities under the influence of the Participation Society agenda, in the Netherlands, and the Localism agenda in England. Residents and private-sector organisations were rarely directly involved in regeneration decision-making. With a little hindsight, one could formulate the contention that these actors were not fully represented in the governance network because the incumbent network actors (i.e. the housing associations and local authorities) chose the devil they knew. They opted for state involvement to acquire investment resources, rather than facing the uncertainties that would have resulted from expanding the network to include residents and private-sector organisations as full and mature network actors. Decision-making processes constitute the fourth component of this study. It explored the decision-making interactions inside the neighbourhood regeneration networks, with a special focus on the interaction strategies used by housing associations. This study found that housing associations in the Groningen and Birmingham cases had a prominent and often leading role in the policy arenas where regeneration policies were developed. National governments in both countries had a strong impact on how these processes evolved, leveraged by the alluring investment resources offered by national regeneration programmes, and the preconditions accompanying these resources. Decision-making took place in arenas that almost exclusively consisted of housing association and local authority professionals. Residents were largely given a consumerist role in the process: their views on neighbourhood needs were collected through various instruments to involve residents, such as surveys and street interviews. Their views were, implicitly, taken into account in the decision-making. Residents were most often not part of these processes and not involved in the development of regeneration investments plans. Not all decision-making arenas were closed to residents. The housing associations in both case-study areas did involve residents as co-decision-makers in more ‘hands-on’ neighbourhood issues such as improving playareas, tackling garbage and litter problems. Decision-making conflicts and deadlocks were rather limited in the investigated governance networks. There was a strong impetus for the housing associations and the local authorities to reach agreements: no consensus would very likely mean no national government funding. Housing associations and local authorities used rather traditional instruments to facilitate decision-making, such as limiting the number of actors involved, and enforcing strict time constraints on decision-making processes. Outcomes are the fifth and last component of this study. In this component we explored how the network—and housing associations in particular—contributed to decision-making and neighbourhood regeneration outcomes. It is evident that the housing associations in the case-study areas contributed significantly to neighbourhood regeneration activities, not only because they channelled considerable investments into the areas, but also due to their strong network relations and frequent interactions with government agencies and local communities. The actions of network actors have improved the quality of some parts of the housing stock. Joint projects have been delivered to improve the public realm and contribute to neighbourhood safety. The research found that actors used very divergent process, input, output and outcome yardsticks to measure success, ranging from the number of projects and activities started, to the amount of money spent, the increase in resident satisfaction, the number of decision-making conflicts overcome, and the improvement achieved in quality-of-life indicators. These yardsticks changed over time and varied from actor to actor. This demonstrated how fluid the assessment of regeneration outcomes can be. New rounds of decision-making, as well as new network actors, led to a review of old decisions, sometimes with a different assessment of the outcomes achieved. Challenges for governance network approaches The governance network perspective has supported the exploration of the role played by housing associations in neighbourhood regeneration decision-making. It has increased our understanding of the complexity and the uncertainties involved in networked forms of decision-making. Governance network theory helped us identify instruments and strategies used by housing associations and local authorities to support regeneration decision-making. The governance network perspective is a rather new academic discipline that can be further developed. This study contributed to this development by addressing some issues and challenges; firstly, the role of residents in decision-making arenas, and secondly, the assessment of governance network outcomes. The theoretical and methodological implications of residents as neighbourhood regeneration co-producers Policy-makers expect a more active role of residents and local communities in the co-production of neighbourhood regeneration. This more inclusive approach may contribute to the quality and legitimacy of decisions made in governance networks, but the efficiency of decision-making will most probably not benefit. The trade-off between efficiency and legitimacy that arises from increased resident involvement is a challenge that calls for the further development of the governance network theory. This research suggests several avenues that could be followed to address this challenge. Firstly, a more extensive use of Habermas’s Theory of Communicative Action, as explored in Chapter 8, might be undertaken to supplement the governance network theory. Secondly, more use could be made of the body of knowledge and theories developed in England during the New Labour government (1997-2010), which was often explicitly concerned with networks that linked governments with citizens and local communities [see Chapter 9]. The assessment of governance network outcomes Co-production of neighbourhood regeneration can lead to more democratic and inclusive approaches to decision-making. This is likely to result in better outcomes, but not necessarily in greater consensus among the actors involved. Within network governance approaches, there is a tendency to define satisfactory outcomes as those that enjoy the greatest joint support of the actors involved in the process. More inclusive approaches, which engage a wider range of actors, might appear to be less successful as the benchmark of satisfaction is raised to include a wider range of preferences and experiences. Therefore, we need a more refined assessment of outcomes produced by increasingly heterogeneous networks. Governance network approaches could develop methods – or develop connections with other theories and methodologies – that help evaluate the success of governance networks by combining substantive regeneration outcomes, actor and stakeholder satisfaction, and network learning. Preventing ‘cherry picking’ in the use of assessment yardsticks is essential, given the disinclination of actors to closely scrutinise the outcomes produced by governance networks (as found in this research). Further development of network governance approaches may increase our understanding of how actors construct the yardsticks to evaluate success, and provide tools to facilitate a more comprehensive assessment of network outcomes [See chapter 9]. Housing associations as champions of networks in vulnerable neighbourhoods This research demonstrated that housing associations can play an important stabilising and cohesion-enhancing role in neighbourhood regeneration networks. Their interests are vested in the value of the local housing stock, and this financial incentive secures some level of commitment to vulnerable neighbourhoods. Their hybrid characteristics enable housing associations to collaborate with community, market and government organisations. Moreover, their professional capabilities and their relatively-easy access to resources allow them to champion neighbourhood needs, in cases where communities lack the capacity or cohesiveness to champion their own. Using the leeway that housing associations have, as a hybrid organisation, is an extremely delicate exercise. They should seek a balance between the very different and variable expectations of the outside world. This balancing act is only attainable when housing associations can combine proficiency in network management, with increased accountability. Each neighbourhood is different, and housing associations should take a role that is appropriate to each neighbourhood. To do this, they should increase their knowledge of the neighbourhood challenges and assess the capabilities of residents and the local community to address these problems. Housing associations can support the development of governance networks to address these problems by helping craft networks in such a way that they include all relevant parties, and by providing small but stable funding to support network development and by improving accountability in decision-making processes. There are strong arguments for housing associations to take a central role in neighbourhood regeneration. Housing associations are among the most prominent frontline agencies supporting vulnerable people and places. Through their housing stock, they are literally ‘anchored’ in the most deprived communities. Housing associations should not become the ‘jack-of-all-trades’ in neighbourhood regeneration, but can help develop, nurture and maintain well-functioning and stable regeneration networks which vulnerable neighbourhoods need. Housing associations can be the long-haul champion that neighbourhoods and local communities need.

Introduction Utopia has always been countercultural, and ever since technological progress has allowed, utopia has been using alternative media to promote and strengthen its underpinning ideals. In this article, I am seeking to clarify the connections between counterculture and alternative media in utopian contexts to demonstrate their reciprocity, then draw together these threads through reference to a well-known figure of the Rainbow Region–Rusty Miller. His trajectory from iconic surfer and Aquarian reporter to mediator for utopian politics and ideals in the Rainbow Region encompasses in a single identity the three elements underpinning this study. In concluding, I will turn to Rusty’s Byron Guide, questioning its classification as alternative or mainstream media, and whether Byron Bay is represented as countercultural and utopian in this long-running and ongoing publication. Counterculture and Alternative Media in Utopian Contexts Counterculture is an umbrella that enfolds utopia, among many other genres and practices. It has been most often situated in the 1960s and 1970s as a new form of social movement embodying youth resistance to the technocratic mainstream and its norms of gender, sexuality, politics, music, and language (Roszak). Many scholars of counterculture underscore its utopian impulses both in the projection of better societies where the social goals are achieved, and in the withdrawal from mainstream society into intentional communities (Yinger 194-6; McKay 5; Berger). Before exploring further the connections between counterculture and alternative media, I want to define the scope of countercultural utopian contexts in general, and the Rainbow Region in particular. Utopia is a neologism created by Sir Thomas More almost 500 years ago to designate the island community that demonstrates order, harmony, justice, hope and desire in the right balance so that it seems like an ideal land. This imaginary place described in Utopia (1516) as a counterpoint to the social, political and religious shortcomings of contemporary 16th century British society, has attracted accusations of heresy (Molner), and been used as a pejorative term, an insult to denigrate political projects that seem farfetched or subversive, especially during the 19th century. Almost every study of utopian theory, literature and practice points to a dissatisfaction with the status quo, which inspires writers, politicians, architects, artists, individuals and communities to rail against it (see for example Davis, Moylan, Suvin, Levitas, Jameson). Kingsley Widmer’s book Counterings: Utopian Dialectics in Contemporary Contexts reiterates what many scholars have stated when he writes that utopias should be understood in terms of what they are countering. Lyman Tower Sargent defines utopia as “a non-existent society described in considerable detail and normally located in time and space” and utopianism as “social dreaming” (9), to which I would add that both indicate an improvement on the alternatives, and may indeed be striving to represent the best place imaginable. Utopian contexts, by extension, are those situations where the “social dreaming” is enhanced through human agency, good governance, just laws, education, and work, rather than being a divinely ordained state of nature (Schaer et al). In this way, utopian contexts are explicitly countercultural through their very conception, as human agency is required and their emphasis is on social change. These modes of resistance against dominant paradigms are most evident in attempts to realise textual projections of a better society in countercultural communal experiments. Almost immediately after its publication, More’s Utopia became the model for Bishop Vasco de Quiroga’s communitarian hospital-town Santa Fe de la Laguna in Michoacan, Mexico, established in the 1530s as a counterculture to the oppressive enslavement and massacres of the Purhépecha people by Nuno Guzmán (Green). The countercultural thrust of the 1960s and 1970s provided many utopian contexts, perhaps most readily identifiable as the intentional communities that spawned and flourished, especially in the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, and New Zealand (Metcalf, Shared Lives). They were often inspired by texts such as Charles A. Reich’s The Greening of America (1970) and Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia (1975), and this convergence of textual practices and alternative lifestyles can be seen in the development of Australia’s own Rainbow Region. Located in northern New South Wales, the geographical area of the Northern Rivers that has come to be known as the Rainbow Region encompasses Byron Bay, Nimbin, Mullumbimby, Bangalow, Clunes, Dunoon, Federal, with Lismore as the region’s largest town. But more evocative than these place names are the “rivers and creeks, vivid green hills, fruit and nut farms […] bounded by subtropical beaches and rainforest mountains” (Wilson 1). Utopian by nature, and recognised as such by the indigenous Bundjalung people who inhabited it before the white settlers, whalers and dairy farmers moved in, the Rainbow Region became utopian through culture–or indeed counterculture–during the 1973 Aquarius Festival in Nimbin when the hippies of Mullumbimby and the surfers of Byron Bay were joined by up to 10,000 people seeking alternative ways of being in the world. When the party was over, many Aquarians stayed on to form intentional communities in the beautiful region, like Tuntable Falls, Nimbin’s first and largest such cooperative (Metcalf, From Utopian Dreaming to Communal Reality 74-83). In utopian contexts, from the Renaissance to the 1970s and beyond, counterculture has underpinned and alternative media has circulated the aims and ideals of the communities of resistance. The early utopian context of the Anabaptist movement has been dubbed as countercultural by Sigrun Haude: “During the reign of the Münster (1534-5) Anabaptists erected not only a religious but also a social and political counterculture to the existing order” (240). And it was this Protestant Reformation that John Downing calls the first real media war, with conflicting movements using pamphlets produced on the new technology of the Gutenberg press to disseminate their ideas (144). What is striking here is the confluence of ideas and practices at this time–countercultural ideals are articulated, published, and disseminated, printing presses make this possible, and utopian activists realise how mass media can be used and abused, exploited and censored. Twentieth century countercultural movements drew on the lessons learnt from historical uprising and revolutions, understanding the importance of getting the word out through their own forms of media which, given the subversive nature of the messages, were essentially alternative, according to the criteria proposed by Chris Atton: alternative media may be understood as a radical challenge to the professionalized and institutionalized practices of the mainstream media. Alternative media privileges a journalism that is closely wedded to notions of social responsibility, replacing an ideology of “objectivity” with overt advocacy and oppositional practices. Its practices emphasize first person, eyewitness accounts by participants; a reworking of the populist approaches of tabloid newspapers to recover a “radical popular” style of reporting; collective and antihierarchical forms of organization which eschew demarcation and specialization–and which importantly suggest an inclusive, radical form of civic journalism. (267) Nick Couldry goes further to point out the utopian processes required to identify agencies of change, including alternative media, which he defines as “practices of symbolic production which contest (in some way) media power itself–that is, the concentration of symbolic power in media institutions” (25). Alternative media’s orientation towards oppositional and contestatory practices demonstrates clear parallels between its ambitions and those of counterculture in utopian contexts. From the 1960s onwards, the upsurge in alternative newspaper numbers is commensurate with the blossoming of the counterculture and increased utopian contexts; Susan Forde describes it thus: “a huge resurgence in the popularity of publications throughout the ‘counter-culture’ days of the 1960s and 1970s” (“Monitoring the Establishment”, 114). The nexus of counterculture and alternative media in such utopian contexts is documented in texts like Roger Streitmatter’s Voices of Revolution and Bob Osterlag’s People’s Movements, People’s Press. Like the utopian newspapers that came out of 18th and 19th century intentional communities, many of the new alternative press served to educate, socialise, promote and represent the special interests of the founders and followers of the countercultural movements, often focusing on the philosophy and ideals underpinning these communities rather than the everyday events (see also Frobert). The radical press in Australia was also gaining ground, with OZ in Australia from 1963-1969, and then from 1967-1973 in London. Magazines launched by Philip Frazer like The Digger, Go-Set, Revolution and High Times, and university student newspapers were the main avenues for youth and alternative expression on the Vietnam war and conscription, gay and lesbian rights, racism, feminism and ecological activism (Forde, Challenging the News; Cock & Perry). Nimbin 1973: Rusty Miller and The Byron Express The 1973 Aquarius Festival of counterculture in Nimbin (12-23 May) was a utopian context that had an alternative media life of its own before it arrived in the Rainbow Region–in student publications like Tharnuka and newsletters distributed via the Aquarius Foundation. There were other voices that announced the coming of the Aquarius Festival to Nimbin and reported on its impact, like The Digger from Melbourne and the local paper, The Northern Star. During the Festival, the Nimbin Good Times first appeared as the daily bulletin and continues today with the original masthead drawn by the Festival’s co-organiser, Graeme Dunstan. Some interesting work has been done on this area, ranging from general studies of the Rainbow Region (Wilson; Munro-Clark) to articles analysing its alternative press (Ward & van Vuuren; Martin & Ellis), but to date, there has been no focus on the Rainbow Region’s first alternative newspaper, The Byron Express. Co-edited by Rusty Miller and David Guthrie, this paper presented and mediated the aims and desires of the Aquarian movement. Though short-lived, as only 7 issues were published from 15 February 1973 to September 1973, The Byron Express left a permanent printed vestige of the Aquarian counterculture movement’s activism and ideals from an independent regional perspective. Miller’s credentials for starting up the newspaper are clear–he has always been a trailblazer, mixing “smarts” with surfing and environmental politics. After graduating from a Bachelor of Arts in history from San Diego State College, he first set foot in Byron Bay during his two semesters with the inaugural Chapman College affiliated University of the Seven Seas in 1965-6. Returning to his hometown of Encinitas, he co-founded the Surf Research accessory company with legendary Californian surfer Mike Doyle, and launched Waxmate, the first specially formulated surf wax in 1967 (Davis, Witzig & James; Warshaw 217), selling his interest in the business soon after to spend a couple of years “living the counterculture life on the Hawaiian Island of Kauai” (Davis, Witzig & James), before heading back to Byron Bay via Bells Beach in 1970 (Miller & Shantz) and Sydney, where he worked as an advertising salesman and writer with Tracks surfing magazine (Martin & Ellis). In 1971, he was one of the first to ride the now famous waves of Uluwatu in Bali, and is captured with Steven Cooney in the iconic publicity image for Albe Falzon’s 1971 film, Morning Of The Earth. The champion surfer from the US knew a thing or two about counterculture, alternative media, advertising and business when he found his new utopian context in Byron Bay. Miller and Guthrie’s front-page editorial of the inaugural issue of The Byron Express, published on 15 February 1973, with the byline “for a higher shire”, expressed the countercultural (cl)aims of the publication. Land use, property development and the lack of concern that some people in Byron had for their impact on the environment and people of the region were a prime target: With this first issue of the Byron Express, we hope to explain that the area is badly in need of a focal point. The transitions of present are vast and moving fast. The land is being sold and resold. Lots of money is coming into the area in the way of developments […] caravan parts, hotels, businesses and real estate. Many of the trips incoming are not exactly “concerned” as to what long term effect such developments might have on the environment and its people. We hope to serve as a focus of concern and service, a centre for expression and reflection. We would ask your contributions in vocal and written form. We are ready for some sock it to ya criticism… and hope you would grab us upon the street to tell us how you feel…The mission of this alternative newspaper is thereby defined by the need for a “focal point” that inscribes the voices of the community in a freely accessible narrative, recorded in print for posterity. Although this first issue contains no mention of the Aquarius Festival, there were already rumours circulating about it, as organisers Graeme Dunstan and Johnny Allen had been up to Main Arm, Mullumbimby and Nimbin on reconnaissance missions beginning in September 1972. Instead, there was an article on “Mullumbimby Man–Close to the Land” by Nicholas Shand, who would go on to found the community-based weekly newspaper The Echo in 1986, then called The Brunswick Valley Echo and still going strong. Another by Bob McTavish asked whether there could be a better form of government; there was a surf story, and a soul food section with a recipe for honey meade entitled “Do you want to get out of it on 10 cents a bottle?” The second issue continues in much the same vein. It is not until the third issue comes out on 17 March 1973 that the Aquarius Festival is mentioned in a skinny half column on page four. And it’s not particularly promising: Arrived at Nimbin, sleepy hamlet… Office in disused R.S.L. rooms, met a couple of guys recently arrived, said nothing was being done. “Only women here, you know–no drive”. Met Joanne and Vi, both unable to say anything to be reported… Graham Dunstan (codenamed Superfest) and John Allen nowhere in sight. Allen off on trip overseas. Dunstan due back in a couple of weeks. 10 weeks to go till “they” all come… and to what… nobody is quite sure. This progress report provides a fascinating contemporary insight into the tensions–between the local surfies and hippies on one hand, and the incoming students on the other–around the organisation of the Aquarius Festival. There is an unbridled barb at the sexist comments made by the guys, implicit criticism of the absent organisers, obvious skepticism about whether anyone will actually come to the festival, and wonderment at what it will be like. Reading between the lines, we might find a feeling of resentment about not being privy to new developments in their own backyard. The final lines of the article are non-committal “Anyway, let’s see what eventuates when the Chiefs return.” It seems that all has been resolved by the fifth issue of 11 May, which is almost entirely dedicated to the Aquarius Festival with the front page headline “Welcome to the New Age”. But there is still an undertone of slight suspicion at what the newcomers to the area might mean in terms of property development: The goal is improving your fellow man’s mind and nourishment in concert with your own; competition to improve your day and the quality of the day for society. Meanwhile, what is the first thing one thinks about when he enters Byron and the area? The physical environment is so magnificent and all encompassing that it can actually hold a man’s breath back a few seconds. Then a man says, “Wow, this land is so beautiful that one could make a quid here.” And from that moment the natural aura and spells are broken and the mind lapses into speculative equations, sales projections and future interest payments. There is plenty of “love” though, in this article: “The gathering at Nimbin is the most spectacular demonstration of the faith people have in a belief that is possible (and possible just because they want it to be) to live in love, through love together.” The following article signed by Rusty Miller “A Town Together” is equally focused on love: “See what you could offer the spirit at Nimbin. It might introduce you to a style that could lead to LOVE.” The centre spread features photos: the obligatory nudes, tents, and back to nature activities, like planting and woodworking. With a text box of “random comments” including one from a Lismore executive: ‘I took my wife and kids out there last weekend and we had such a good time. Seems pretty organized and the town was loaded with love. Heard there is some hepatitis about and rumours of VD. Everyone happy.” And another from a land speculator (surely the prime target of Miller’s wrath): “Saw guys kissing girls on the street, so sweet, bought 200 acres right outside of town, it’s going to be valuable out there some day.” The interview with Johnny Allen as the centrepiece includes some pertinent commentary on the media and reveals a well-founded suspicion of the mediatisation of the Aquarius Festival: We have tried to avoid the media actually. But we haven’t succeeded in doing so. Part of the basic idea is that we don’t need to be sold. All the down town press can do is try and interpret you. And by doing that it automatically places it in the wrong sort of context. So we’ve tried to keep it to people writing about the festival to people who will be involved in it. It’s an involvement festival. Coopting The Byron Express as an “involved” party effects a fundamental shift from an external reporting newspaper to a kind of proponent or even propaganda for the Aquarius festival and its ideas, like so many utopian newspapers had done before. It is therefore perhaps inevitable that The Byron Express should disappear very soon after the Aquarius festival. Fiona Martin and Rhonda Ellis explain that Rusty Miller stopped producing the paper because he “found the production schedule exhausting and his readership too small to attract consistent advertising” (5). At any rate, there were only two more issues, one in June–with some follow up reporting of the festival–and another in September 1973, which was almost entirely devoted to environmentally focused features, including an interview with Kath Walker (Oodgeroo Noonuccal). Byron Bay 2013: Thirty Years of Rusty’s Byron Guide What Rusty did next is fairly well known locally–surfing and teaching people how to surf and a bit of writing. When major local employer Walkers slaughterhouse closed in 1983, he and his wife, social geographer Tricia Shantz, were asked by the local council to help promote Byron Bay as a tourist destination, writing the first Byron guide in 1983-4. Incorporating essays by local personalities and dedicated visitors, the Byron guide perpetuates the ideal of environmental awareness, spiritual experimentation, and respect for the land and sea. Recent contributors have included philosopher Peter Singer, political journalist Kerry O’Brien, and writer John Ralston Saul, and Miller and Shantz always have an essay in there themselves. “People, Politics and Culture” is the new byline for the 2013 edition. And Miller’s opening essay mediates the same utopian desires and environmental community messages that he espoused from the beginning of The Byron Express: The name Byron Bay represents something that we constantly try to articulate. If one was to dream up a menu of situations and conditions to compose a utopia, Australia would be the model of the nation-state and Byron would have many elements of the actual place one might wish to live for the rest of their lives. But of course there is always the danger of excesses in tropical paradises especially when they become famous destinations. Australia is being held to ransom for the ideology that we should be slaves to money and growth at the cost of a degraded and polluted physical and social environment. Byron at least was/is a refuge against this profusion of the so-called real-world perception that holds profit over environment as the way we must choose for our future. Even when writing for a much more commercial medium, Miller retains the countercultural utopian spirit that was crystallised in the Aquarius festival of 1973, and which remains relevant to many of those living in and visiting the Rainbow Region. Miller’s ethos moves beyond the alternative movements and communities to infiltrate travel writing and tourism initiatives in the area today, as evidenced in the Rusty’s Byron Guide essays. By presenting more radical discourses for a mainstream public, Miller together with Shantz have built on the participatory role that he played in launching the region’s first alternative newspaper in 1973 that became albeit briefly the equivalent of a countercultural utopian gazette. Now, he and Shantz effectively play the same role, producing a kind of countercultural form of utopian media for Byron Bay that corresponds to exactly the same criteria mentioned above. Through their free publication, they aim to educate, socialise, promote and represent the special interests of the founders and followers of the Rainbow Region, focusing on the philosophy and ideals underpinning these communities rather than the everyday events. The Byron Bay that Miller and Shantz promote is resolutely utopian, and certainly countercultural if compared to other free publications like The Book, a new shopping guide, or mainstream media elsewhere. Despite this new competition, they are planning the next edition for 2015 with essays to make people think, talk, and understand the region’s issues, so perhaps the counterculture is still holding its own against the mainstream. References Atton, Chris. “What Is ‘Alternative’ Journalism?” Journalism: Theory, Practice, Criticism 4.3 (2003): 267-72. Berger, Bennett M. The Survival of a Counterculture: Ideological Work and Everyday Life among Rural Communards. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2004. Cock, Peter H., & Paul F. Perry. “Australia's Alternative Media.” Media Information Australia 6 (1977): 4-13. Couldry, Nick. “Mediation and Alternative Media, or Relocating the Centre of Media and Communication Studies.” Media International Australia, Incorporating Culture & Policy 103, (2002): 24-31. Davis, Dale, John Witzig & Don James. “Rusty Miller.” Encyclopedia of Surfing. 10 Nov. 2014 ‹http://encyclopediaofsurfing.com/entries/miller-rusty›. Downing, John. Radical Media: Rebellious Communication and Social Movements. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Davis, J.C. Utopia and the Ideal Society: A Study of English Utopian Writing 1516-1700. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983. Forde, Susan. Challenging the News: The Journalism of Alternative and Independent Media. Palgrave Macmillan: London, 2011. ---. “Monitoring the Establishment: The Development of the Alternative Press in Australia” Media International Australia, Incorporating Culture & Policy 87 (May 1998): 114-133. Frobert, Lucien. “French Utopian Socialists as the First Pioneers in Development.” Cambridge Journal of Economics 35 (2011): 729-49. Green, Toby. Thomas More’s Magician: A Novel Account of Utopia in Mexico. London: Phoenix, 2004. Goffman, Ken, & Dan Joy. Counterculture through the Ages: From Abraham to Acid House. New York: Villard Books. 2004. Haude, Sigrun. “Anabaptism.” The Reformation World. Ed. Andrew Pettegree. London: Routledge, 2000. 237-256. Jameson, Fredric. Archeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions. New York: Verso, 2005. Levitas, Ruth. Utopia as Method. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Martin, Fiona, & Rhonda Ellis. “Dropping In, Not Out: The Evolution of the Alternative Press in Byron Shire 1970-2001.” Transformations 2 (2002). 10 Nov. 2014 ‹http://www.transformationsjournal.org/journal/issue_02/pdf/MartinEllis.pdf›. McKay, George. Senseless Acts of Beauty: Cultures of Resistance since the Sixties. London: Verso, 1996. Metcalf, Bill. From Utopian Dreaming to Communal Reality: Cooperative Lifestyles in Australia. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 1995. ---. Shared Visions, Shared Lives: Communal Living around the Globe. Forres, UK: Findhorn Press, 1996. Miller, Rusty & Tricia Shantz. Turning Point: Surf Portraits and Stories from Bells to Byron 1970-1971. Surf Research. 2012. Molnar, Thomas. Utopia: The Perennial Heresy. London: Tom Stacey, 1972. Moylan, Tom. Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination. New York: Methuen, 1986. Munro-Clark, Margaret. Communes in Rural Australia: The Movement since 1970. Sydney: Hale & Iremonger, 1986. Osterlag, Bob. People’s Movements, People’s Press: The Journalism of Social Justice Movements. Boston: Beacon Press, 2006. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of a Counter Culture: Reflections on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. New York: Anchor, 1969. Sargent, Lyman Tower. “Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited.” Utopian Studies 5.1 (1994): 1-37. Schaer, Roland, Gregory Claeys, and Lyman Tower Sargent, eds. Utopia: The Search for the Ideal Society in the Western World. New York: New York Public Library/Oxford UP, 2000. Streitmatter, Roger. Voices of Revolution: The Dissident Press in America. Columbia: Columbia UP, 2001. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre. New Haven: Yale UP, 1979. Ward, Susan, & Kitty van Vuuren. “Belonging to the Rainbow Region: Place, Local Media, and the Construction of Civil and Moral Identities Strategic to Climate Change Adaptability.” Environmental Communication 7.1 (2013): 63-79. Warshaw, Matt. The History of Surfing. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2011. Wilson, Helen. (Ed.). Belonging in the Rainbow Region: Cultural Perspectives on the NSW North Coast. Lismore, NSW: Southern Cross University Press, 2003. Widmer, Kingsley. Counterings: Utopian Dialectics in Contemporary Contexts. Ann Arbor, London: UMI Research Press, 1988. Yinger, J. Milton. Countercultures: The Promise and Peril of a World Turned Upside Down. New York: The Free Press, 1982.

Introduction In December 2010, Nespresso, the world’s leading brand of premium-portioned coffee, opened a flagship “boutique” in Sydney’s Pitt Street Mall. This was Nespresso’s fifth boutique opening of 2010, after Brussels, Miami, Soho, and Munich. The Sydney debut coincided with the mall’s upmarket redevelopment, which explains Nespresso’s arrival in the city: strategic geographic expansion is key to the brand’s growth. Rather than panoramic ubiquity, a retail option favoured by brands like McDonalds, KFC and Starbucks, Nespresso opts for iconic, prestigious locations. This strategy has been highly successful: since 2000 Nespresso has recorded year-on-year per annum growth of 30 per cent. This has been achieved, moreover, despite a global financial downturn and an international coffee market replete with brand variety. In turn, Nespresso marks an evolution in the coffee market over the last decade. The Nespresso Story Founded in 1986, Nespresso is the fasting growing brand in the Nestlé Group. Its headquarters are in Lausanne, Switzerland, with over 7,000 employees worldwide. In 2012, Nespresso had 270 boutiques in 50 countries. The brand’s growth strategy involves three main components: premium coffee capsules, “mated” with specially designed machines, and accompanied by exceptional customer service through the Nespresso Club. Each component requires some explanation. Nespresso offers 16 varieties of Grand Crus coffee: 7 espresso blends, 3 pure origin espressos, 3 lungos (for larger cups), and 3 decaffeinated coffees. Each 5.5 grams of portioned coffee is cased in a hermetically sealed aluminium capsule, or pod, designed to preserve the complex, volatile aromas (between 800 and 900 per pod), and prevent oxidation. These capsules are designed to be used exclusively with Nespresso-branded machines, which are equipped with a patented high-pressure extraction system designed for optimum release of the coffee. These machines, of which there are 28 models, are developed with 6 machine partners, and Antoine Cahen, from Ateliers du Nord in Lausanne, designs most of them. For its consumers, members of the Nespresso Club, the capsules and machines guarantee perfect espresso coffee every time, within seconds and with minimum effort—what Nespresso calls the “ultimate coffee experience.” The Nespresso Club promotes this experience as an everyday luxury, whereby café-quality coffee can be enjoyed in the privacy and comfort of Club members’ homes. This domestic focus is a relatively recent turn in its history. Nestlé patented some of its pod technology in 1976; the compatible machines, initially made in Switzerland by Turmix, were developed a decade later. Nespresso S. A. was set up as a subsidiary unit within the Nestlé Group with a view to target the office and fine restaurant sector. It was first test-marketed in Japan in 1986, and rolled out the same year in Switzerland, France and Italy. However, by 1988, low sales prompted Nespresso’s newly appointed CEO, Jean-Paul Gillard, to rethink the brand’s focus. Gillard subsequently repositioned Nespresso’s target market away from the commercial sector towards high-income households and individuals, and introduced a mail-order distribution system; these elements became the hallmarks of the Nespresso Club (Markides 55). The Nespresso Club was designed to give members who had purchased Nespresso machines 24-hour customer service, by mail, phone, fax, and email. By the end of 1997 there were some 250,000 Club members worldwide. The boom in domestic, user-friendly espresso machines from the early 1990s helped Nespresso’s growth in this period. The cumulative efforts by the main manufacturers—Krups, Bosch, Braun, Saeco and DeLonghi—lowered the machines’ average price to around US $100 (Purpura, “Espresso” 88; Purpura, “New” 116). This paralleled consumers’ growing sophistication, as they became increasingly familiar with café-quality espresso, cappuccino and latté—for reasons to be detailed below. Nespresso was primed to exploit this cultural shift in the market and forge a charismatic point of difference: an aspirational, luxury option within an increasingly accessible and familiar field. Between 2006 and 2008, Nespresso sales more than doubled, prompting a second production factory to supplement the original plant in Avenches (Simonian). In 2008, Nespresso grew 20 times faster than the global coffee market (Reguly B1). As Nespresso sales exceeded $1.3 billion AU in 2009, with 4.8 billion capsules shipped out annually and 5 million Club members worldwide, it became Nestlé’s fastest growing division (Canning 28). According to Nespresso’s Oceania market director, Renaud Tinel, the brand now represents 8 per cent of the total coffee market; of Nespresso specifically, he reports that 10,000 cups (using one capsule per cup) were consumed worldwide each minute in 2009, and that increased to 12,300 cups per minute in 2010 (O’Brien 16). Given such growth in such a brief period, the atypical dynamic between the boutique, the Club and the Nespresso brand warrants closer consideration. Nespresso opened its first boutique in Paris in 2000, on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. It was a symbolic choice and signalled the brand’s preference for glamorous precincts in cosmopolitan cities. This has become the design template for all Nespresso boutiques, what the company calls “brand embassies” in its press releases. More like art gallery-style emporiums than retail spaces, these boutiques perform three main functions: they showcase Nespresso coffees, machines and accessories (all elegantly displayed); they enable Club members to stock up on capsules; and they offer excellent customer service, which invariably equates to detailed production information. The brand’s revenue model reflects the boutique’s role in the broader business strategy: 50 per cent of Nespresso’s business is generated online, 30 per cent through the boutiques, and 20 per cent through call centres. Whatever floor space these boutiques dedicate to coffee consumption is—compared to the emphasis on exhibition and ambience—minimal and marginal. In turn, this tightly monitored, self-focused model inverts the conventional function of most commercial coffee sites. For several hundred years, the café has fostered a convivial atmosphere, served consumers’ social inclinations, and overwhelmingly encouraged diverse, eclectic clientele. The Nespresso boutique is the antithesis to this, and instead actively limits interaction: the Club “community” does not meet as a community, and is united only in atomised allegiance to the Nespresso brand. In this regard, Nespresso stands in stark contrast to another coffee brand that has been highly successful in recent years—Starbucks. Starbucks famously recreates the aesthetics, rhetoric and atmosphere of the café as a “third place”—a term popularised by urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg to describe non-work, non-domestic spaces where patrons converge for respite or recreation. These liminal spaces (cafés, parks, hair salons, book stores and such locations) might be private, commercial sites, yet they provide opportunities for chance encounters, even therapeutic interactions. In this way, they aid sociability and civic life (Kleinman 193). Long before the term “third place” was coined, coffee houses were deemed exemplars of egalitarian social space. As Rudolf P. Gaudio notes, the early coffee houses of Western Europe, in Oxford and London in the mid-1600s, “were characterized as places where commoners and aristocrats could meet and socialize without regard to rank” (670). From this sanguine perspective, they both informed and animated the modern public sphere. That is, and following Habermas, as a place where a mixed cohort of individuals could meet and discuss matters of public importance, and where politics intersected society, the eighteenth-century British coffee house both typified and strengthened the public sphere (Karababa and Ger 746). Moreover, and even from their early Ottoman origins (Karababa and Ger), there has been an historical correlation between the coffee house and the cosmopolitan, with the latter at least partly defined in terms of demographic breadth (Luckins). Ironically, and insofar as Nespresso appeals to coffee-literate consumers, the brand owes much to Starbucks. In the two decades preceding Nespresso’s arrival, Starbucks played a significant role in refining coffee literacy around the world, gauging mass-market trends, and stirring consumer consciousness. For Nespresso, this constituted major preparatory phenomena, as its strategy (and success) since the early 2000s presupposed the coffee market that Starbucks had helped to create. According to Nespresso’s chief executive Richard Giradot, central to Nespresso’s expansion is a focus on particular cities and their coffee culture (Canning 28). In turn, it pays to take stock of how such cities developed a coffee culture amenable to Nespresso—and therein lays the brand’s debt to Starbucks. Until the last few years, and before celebrity ambassador George Clooney was enlisted in 2005, Nespresso’s marketing was driven primarily by Club members’ recommendations. At the same time, though, Nespresso insisted that Club members were coffee connoisseurs, whose knowledge and enjoyment of coffee exceeded conventional coffee offerings. In 2000, Henk Kwakman, one of Nestlé’s Coffee Specialists, explained the need for portioned coffee in terms of guaranteed perfection, one that demanding consumers would expect. “In general”, he reasoned, “people who really like espresso coffee are very much more quality driven. When you consider such an intense taste experience, the quality is very important. If the espresso is slightly off quality, the connoisseur notices this immediately” (quoted in Butler 50). What matters here is how this corps of connoisseurs grew to a scale big enough to sustain and strengthen the Nespresso system, in the absence of a robust marketing or educative drive by Nespresso (until very recently). Put simply, the brand’s ascent was aided by Starbucks, specifically by the latter’s success in changing the mainstream coffee market during the 1990s. In establishing such a strong transnational presence, Starbucks challenged smaller, competing brands to define themselves with more clarity and conviction. Indeed, working with data that identified just 200 freestanding coffee houses in the US prior to 1990 compared to 14,000 in 2003, Kjeldgaard and Ostberg go so far as to state that: “Put bluntly, in the US there was no local coffee consumptionscape prior to Starbucks” (Kjeldgaard and Ostberg 176). Starbucks effectively redefined the coffee world for mainstream consumers in ways that were directly beneficial for Nespresso. Starbucks: Coffee as Ambience, Experience, and Cultural Capital While visitors to Nespresso boutiques can sample the coffee, with highly trained baristas and staff on site to explain the Nespresso system, in the main there are few concessions to the conventional café experience. Primarily, these boutiques function as material spaces for existing Club members to stock up on capsules, and therefore they complement the Nespresso system with a suitably streamlined space: efficient, stylish and conspicuously upmarket. Outside at least one Sydney boutique for instance (Bondi Junction, in the fashionable eastern suburbs), visitors enter through a club-style cordon, something usually associated with exclusive bars or hotels. This demarcates the boutique from neighbouring coffee chains, and signals Nespresso’s claim to more privileged patrons. This strategy though, the cultivation of a particular customer through aesthetic design and subtle flattery, is not unique. For decades, Starbucks also contrived a “special” coffee experience. Moreover, while the Starbucks model strikes a very different sensorial chord to that of Nespresso (in terms of décor, target consumer and so on) it effectively groomed and prepped everyday coffee drinkers to a level of relative self-sufficiency and expertise—and therein is the link between Starbucks’s mass-marketed approach and Nespresso’s timely arrival. Starbucks opened its first store in 1971, in Seattle. Three partners founded it: Jerry Baldwin and Zev Siegl, both teachers, and Gordon Bowker, a writer. In 1982, as they opened their sixth Seattle store, they were joined by Howard Schultz. Schultz’s trip to Italy the following year led to an entrepreneurial epiphany to which he now attributes Starbucks’s success. Inspired by how cafés in Italy, particularly the espresso bars in Milan, were vibrant social hubs, Schultz returned to the US with a newfound sensitivity to ambience and attitude. In 1987, Schultz bought Starbucks outright and stated his business philosophy thus: “We aren’t in the coffee business, serving people. We are in the people business, serving coffee” (quoted in Ruzich 432). This was articulated most clearly in how Schultz structured Starbucks as the ultimate “third place”, a welcoming amalgam of aromas, music, furniture, textures, literature and free WiFi. This transformed the café experience twofold. First, sensory overload masked the dull homogeny of a global chain with an air of warm, comforting domesticity—an inviting, everyday “home away from home.” To this end, in 1994, Schultz enlisted interior design “mastermind” Wright Massey; with his team of 45 designers, Massey created the chain’s decor blueprint, an “oasis for contemplation” (quoted in Scerri 60). At the same time though, and second, Starbucks promoted a revisionist, airbrushed version of how the coffee was produced. Patrons could see and smell the freshly roasted beans, and read about their places of origin in the free pamphlets. In this way, Starbucks merged the exotic and the cosmopolitan. The global supply chain underwent an image makeover, helped by a “new” vocabulary that familiarised its coffee drinkers with the diversity and complexity of coffee, and such terms as aroma, acidity, body and flavour. This strategy had a decisive impact on the coffee market, first in the US and then elsewhere: Starbucks oversaw a significant expansion in coffee consumption, both quantitatively and qualitatively. In the decades following the Second World War, coffee consumption in the US reached a plateau. Moreover, as Steven Topik points out, the rise of this type of coffee connoisseurship actually coincided with declining per capita consumption of coffee in the US—so the social status attributed to specialised knowledge of coffee “saved” the market: “Coffee’s rise as a sign of distinction and connoisseurship meant its appeal was no longer just its photoactive role as a stimulant nor the democratic sociability of the coffee shop” (Topik 100). Starbucks’s singular triumph was to not only convert non-coffee drinkers, but also train them to a level of relative sophistication. The average “cup o’ Joe” thus gave way to the latte, cappuccino, macchiato and more, and a world of coffee hitherto beyond (perhaps above) the average American consumer became both regular and routine. By 2003, Starbucks’s revenue was US $4.1 billion, and by 2012 there were almost 20,000 stores in 58 countries. As an idealised “third place,” Starbucks functioned as a welcoming haven that flattened out and muted the realities of global trade. The variety of beans on offer (Arabica, Latin American, speciality single origin and so on) bespoke a generous and bountiful modernity; while brochures schooled patrons in the nuances of terroir, an appreciation for origin and distinctiveness that encoded cultural capital. This positioned Starbucks within a happy narrative of the coffee economy, and drew patrons into this story by flattering their consumer choices. Against the generic sameness of supermarket options, Starbucks promised distinction, in Pierre Bourdieu’s sense of the term, and diversity in its coffee offerings. For Greg Dickinson, the Starbucks experience—the scent of the beans, the sound of the grinders, the taste of the coffees—negated the abstractions of postmodern, global trade: by sensory seduction, patrons connected with something real, authentic and material. At the same time, Starbucks professed commitment to the “triple bottom line” (Savitz), the corporate mantra that has morphed into virtual orthodoxy over the last fifteen years. This was hardly surprising; companies that trade in food staples typically grown in developing regions (coffee, tea, sugar, and coffee) felt the “political-aesthetic problematization of food” (Sassatelli and Davolio). This saw increasingly cognisant consumers trying to reconcile the pleasures of consumption with environmental and human responsibilities. The “triple bottom line” approach, which ostensibly promotes best business practice for people, profits and the planet, was folded into Starbucks’s marketing. The company heavily promoted its range of civic engagement, such as donations to nurses’ associations, literacy programs, clean water programs, and fair dealings with its coffee growers in developing societies (Simon). This bode well for its target market. As Constance M. Ruch has argued, Starbucks sought the burgeoning and lucrative “bobo” class, a term Ruch borrows from David Brooks. A portmanteau of “bourgeois bohemians,” “bobo” describes the educated elite that seeks the ambience and experience of a counter-cultural aesthetic, but without the political commitment. Until the last few years, it seemed Starbucks had successfully grafted this cultural zeitgeist onto its “third place.” Ironically, the scale and scope of the brand’s success has meant that Starbucks’s claim to an ethical agenda draws frequent and often fierce attack. As a global behemoth, Starbucks evolved into an iconic symbol of advanced consumer culture. For those critical of how such brands overwhelm smaller, more local competition, the brand is now synonymous for insidious, unstoppable retail spread. This in turn renders Starbucks vulnerable to protests that, despite its gestures towards sustainability (human and environmental), and by virtue of its size, ubiquity and ultimately conservative philosophy, it has lost whatever cachet or charm it supposedly once had. As Bryant Simon argues, in co-opting the language of ethical practice within an ultimately corporatist context, Starbucks only ever appealed to a modest form of altruism; not just in terms of the funds committed to worthy causes, but also to move thorny issues to “the most non-contentious middle-ground,” lest conservative customers felt alienated (Simon 162). Yet, having flagged itself as an ethical brand, Starbucks became an even bigger target for anti-corporatist sentiment, and the charge that, as a multinational giant, it remained complicit in (and one of the biggest benefactors of) a starkly inequitable and asymmetric global trade. It remains a major presence in the world coffee market, and arguably the most famous of the coffee chains. Over the last decade though, the speed and intensity with which Nespresso has grown, coupled with its atypical approach to consumer engagement, suggests that, in terms of brand equity, it now offers a more compelling point of difference than Starbucks. Brand “Me” Insofar as the Nespresso system depends on a consumer market versed in the intricacies of quality coffee, Starbucks can be at least partly credited for nurturing a more refined palate amongst everyday coffee drinkers. Yet while Starbucks courted the “average” consumer in its quest for market control, saturating the suburban landscape with thousands of virtually indistinguishable stores, Nespresso marks a very different sensibility. Put simply, Nespresso inverts the logic of a coffee house as a “third place,” and patrons are drawn not to socialise and relax but to pursue their own highly individualised interests. The difference with Starbucks could not be starker. One visitor to the Bloomingdale boutique (in New York’s fashionable Soho district) described it as having “the feel of Switzerland rather than Seattle. Instead of velvet sofas and comfy music, it has hard surfaces, bright colours and European hostesses” (Gapper 9). By creating a system that narrows the gap between production and consumption, to the point where Nespresso boutiques advertise the coffee brand but do not promote on-site coffee drinking, the boutiques are blithely indifferent to the historical, romanticised image of the coffee house as a meeting place. The result is a coffee experience that exploits the sophistication and vanity of aspirational consumers, but ignores the socialising scaffold by which coffee houses historically and perhaps naively made some claim to community building. If anything, Nespresso restricts patrons’ contemplative field: they consider only their relationships to the brand. In turn, Nespresso offers the ultimate expression of contemporary consumer capitalism, a hyper-individual experience for a hyper-modern age. By developing a global brand that is both luxurious and niche, Nespresso became “the Louis Vuitton of coffee” (Betts 14). Where Starbucks pursued retail ubiquity, Nespresso targets affluent, upmarket cities. As chief executive Richard Giradot put it, with no hint of embarrassment or apology: “If you take China, for example, we are not speaking about China, we are speaking about Shanghai, Hong Kong, Beijing because you will not sell our concept in the middle of nowhere in China” (quoted in Canning 28). For this reason, while Europe accounts for 90 per cent of Nespresso sales (Betts 15), its forays into the Americas, Asia and Australasia invariably spotlights cities that are already iconic or emerging economic hubs. The first boutique in Latin America, for instance, was opened in Jardins, a wealthy suburb in Sao Paulo, Brazil. In Nespresso, Nestlé has popularised a coffee experience neatly suited to contemporary consumer trends: Club members inhabit a branded world as hermetically sealed as the aluminium pods they purchase and consume. Besides the Club’s phone, fax and online distribution channels, pods can only be bought at the boutiques, which minimise even the potential for serendipitous mingling. The baristas are there primarily for product demonstrations, whilst highly trained staff recite the machines’ strengths (be they in design or utility), or information about the actual coffees. For Club members, the boutique service is merely the human extension of Nespresso’s online presence, whereby product information becomes increasingly tailored to increasingly individualised tastes. In the boutique, this emphasis on the individual is sold in terms of elegance, expedience and privilege. Nespresso boasts that over 70 per cent of its workforce is “customer facing,” sharing their passion and knowledge with Club members. Having already received and processed the product information (through the website, boutique staff, and promotional brochures), Club members need not do anything more than purchase their pods. In some of the more recently opened boutiques, such as in Paris-Madeleine, there is even an Exclusive Room where only Club members may enter—curious tourists (or potential members) are kept out. Club members though can select their preferred Grands Crus and checkout automatically, thanks to RFID (radio frequency identification) technology inserted in the capsule sleeves. So, where Starbucks exudes an inclusive, hearth-like hospitality, the Nespresso Club appears more like a pampered clique, albeit a growing one. As described in the Financial Times, “combine the reception desk of a designer hotel with an expensive fashion display and you get some idea what a Nespresso ‘coffee boutique’ is like” (Wiggins and Simonian 10). Conclusion Instead of sociability, Nespresso puts a premium on exclusivity and the knowledge gained through that exclusive experience. The more Club members know about the coffee, the faster and more individualised (and “therefore” better) the transaction they have with the Nespresso brand. This in turn confirms Zygmunt Bauman’s contention that, in a consumer society, being free to choose requires competence: “Freedom to choose does not mean that all choices are right—there are good and bad choices, better and worse choices. The kind of choice eventually made is the evidence of competence or its lack” (Bauman 43-44). Consumption here becomes an endless process of self-fashioning through commodities; a process Eva Illouz considers “all the more strenuous when the market recruits the consumer through the sysiphian exercise of his/her freedom to choose who he/she is” (Illouz 392). In a status-based setting, the more finely graded the differences between commodities (various places of origin, blends, intensities, and so on), the harder the consumer works to stay ahead—which means to be sufficiently informed. Consumers are locked in a game of constant reassurance, to show upward mobility to both themselves and society. For all that, and like Starbucks, Nespresso shows some signs of corporate social responsibility. In 2009, the company announced its “Ecolaboration” initiative, a series of eco-friendly targets for 2013. By then, Nespresso aims to: source 80 per cent of its coffee through Sustainable Quality Programs and Rainforest Alliance Certified farms; triple its capacity to recycle used capsules to 75 per cent; and reduce the overall carbon footprint required to produce each cup of Nespresso by 20 per cent (Nespresso). This information is conveyed through the brand’s website, press releases and brochures. However, since such endeavours are now de rigueur for many brands, it does not register as particularly innovative, progressive or challenging: it is an unexceptional (even expected) part of contemporary mainstream marketing. Indeed, the use of actor George Clooney as Nespresso’s brand ambassador since 2005 shows shrewd appraisal of consumers’ political and cultural sensibilities. As a celebrity who splits his time between Hollywood and Lake Como in Italy, Clooney embodies the glamorous, cosmopolitan lifestyle that Nespresso signifies. 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